All I Want For Christmas
by smalld1171
Summary: After an emotionally draining hunt on Christmas Eve, the boys wind up in some trouble and receive help from an unexpected source.
1. Chapter 1

**All I Want For Christmas**

_After an emotionally draining hunt on Christmas Eve, the boys wind up in some trouble and receive help from an unexpected source._

I know, too many stories from me out there and not enough completed ones. Sorry about that but when I actually got a moment to write this week, this is what popped out of my brain onto the page. In the spirit of the season I was compelled to write something a little more heartwarming than my usual fare (although the first chapter may not be too warm and fuzzy). I hope any who read will enjoy.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

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><p>"Dean…"<p>

"Just… save it Sam okay? Look, I'm good, really, I just... I want to get the hell out of here. We did our job, what we had to do. Sure, it kinda sucked but all in a day's work right? So, let's hit the road and get busy looking for the next job. Somehow I'm sure there are more dead things out there that need a little reminder that they don't belong here anymore, just like this one."

The voice doesn't hold its usual venom and the younger of the two Winchester brothers is about to call him on it when Dean picks up their duffle and heads off in the direction of the car, effectively ending any chance to actually have a conversation. He watches his brother's receding back and hears the snow crunch and crackle under his boots. He wants to suggest that they just head back to the town they just came from but Dean had been adamant to put as much distance between them and this place as possible.

It's going to be a long drive.

Sam looks to the grave once more, eyes the charred and smoldering bones within and shivers at the sight of them and of the tiny cross that marks the sight. This was no 'simple' salt and burn and he knows his brother is having a hard time dealing with it. An impatient honk comes from the distance and Sam is in awe that his brother can make even that simple act sound pissy. Great. He picks up the shovel and heads off towards the car and his agitated brother.

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><p>The Impala rumbles down the black asphalt, its exhaust creating a smoky tendril that reaches out into the night air. It's cold, too damn cold, and on what is supposed to be a night filled with love and peace, the chill that has descended upon the passengers seated inside has more to do than with just the weather outside.<p>

The moonlight casts a glow on the car's ebony skin and reflects itself on the face of the driver. There is no peace or love, no warmth or wonder of the season depicted on his face. His expression is sour and angry and he has his hands wrapped around the wheel so tightly that his fingerprints may be permanently etched within it.

It is tense and eerily quiet within their home away from home. No music. No voices. Just silence; each man deep in thought about the spirit they had to dispatch from this world into the next.

Sam chances a quick look towards his brother and the emotionless mask he sees makes him swallow and even though he wants to reach out and comfort him in some way, he decides now is not the time and does not allow his gaze to linger. Dean is upset and hell, if he needs a little time to cool off then he is willing to wait.

This hunt was the worst possible kind.

A girl. She had been a young, innocent girl once upon a time. A child, vibrant and full of life. A child who no doubt had dreams of her own, with a spark of innocence and a warm and gentle heart. But all that she dreamed of, all she wanted to be were stolen away from her as she lay bound, gagged and forgotten by the people who she trusted; when the ones who were meant to be her protectors left her in a damn cellar to rot. And die.

She breathed her last breath on Christmas Eve, twenty years ago, and has been bound to the earth since that day, a twisted and vile version of herself exacting revenge each December 24th on others she viewed as having dared to treat a child with anything but the love and affection each child deserves.

The driver sighs as his hand drags through his tussled hair. He closes his eyes briefly and feels a pang of sadness deep in his heart. Most of the time he can just let it go, can take some solace in the fact that a tortured spirit has been set free, that they are no longer forced to relive their death time and time again, that they are finally free to take that final step into whatever lays beyond.

But sometimes the job takes its toll. Sometimes it is much more complicated than that. The rational part of himself tells him, shouts to him that it had to be done, that she was killing people who may not have been the best parents in the world but didn't deserve or earn her wrath. His jaw tightens because right now, that fact doesn't make the act of burning the bones of a child any less vulgar or disgusting. There is just something so inherently wrong with that. The fact that she had been tainted and turned into something so opposite of who and what she was in life makes him sick to his stomach.

Green eyes stare out to the road ahead and squint slightly as a single snowflake floats down from the heavens and melts upon contact with his baby's windshield. He gazes up and follows the next one, and the next one, until more and more flakes descend and he mutters a quiet 'perfect' to no one particular.

Faster and faster they fall, slowly dusting the blackness of the car and the road ahead with just enough of the white stuff to piss him off. He sighs and silently begs the road and the skies to give him a damn break already. He's tired and beat up and emotionally wrecked and all he wants is to see a sign letting him know how long until the next town, until he can lie down and sleep until forever.

The Impala's engine slows as the driver lifts his foot from the gas to reduce her speed, as he peers out at the snow as it begins to blow across the open road. The wind howls outside and he looks to his brother in the passenger seat.

Both men are now wide awake, forced to keep their eyes on the road that continues to become more and more difficult to navigate.

"If we don't come across anything soon Dean we better stop until the worst is over."

The driver almost flinches at the sound, the gravelly voice of his brother seems unexpected when they have travelled in silence for so long.

"Yeah, let's give it five more minutes Sam and then we'll pull off the road."

As soon as the words travel from his lips he feels the back of his beloved car swerve, her tires having lost their traction as she comes in contact with a patch of black ice. He adjusts his grip on the wheel and lets out a gust of air through his nose when he manages to right his car. His heart flutters in his chest, he really doesn't need this kind of shit after the night they've had.

The snow and wind are howling all around them now and the older brother is reminded how it sounds similar to when bones are ignited in flame. He smirks at the randomness of that thought and peers outward at his car and the road as they continue to be blanketed in a layer of white slop.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, I know, help me look for a spot that won't take us straight into the damn ditch."

He should learn not to open his mouth. He should know things are never quite that simple.

As the car crests the top of a hill it's enveloped in a powerful beam of light that causes both men to struggle to make out whatever is in their path. The car decelerates as the gas pedal is abandoned and eyes squint to adjust to the images peering into them through the glass. The brothers gasp in unison as they take in the view of a much larger vehicle as it closes in on their position.

The older Winchester yanks the wheel to the side, panicked and quick in his movements to avoid a head-on collision with the beast that looms right in front of them. The car fishtails, its perilous grip on the road finally gives way and the brothers are powerless to stop whatever events are destined to unfold around them.

It's loud and violent as the truck slams into the hind quarter of the car, as steel meets steel and sparks illuminate the blackness of night. As the passengers bounce around the inside of the now half-mangled car, it is unable to comply with the futile movements her driver still makes to bring things back under control.

The eyes of the brothers lock for a split second as they seem to fly through the air and head straight towards the ditch they were trying so desperately to avoid.

The blinding light and layers of snow give way as the brothers are plunged into blackness, and silence fills the car once more.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi there. Sorry for the short chapter but I hope you will find it enjoyable nonetheless. And not to worry, I did mention and do intend to keep my promise of a heartwarming story. Thank you for all the lovely reviews and I hope that this chapter does not disappoint.**

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><p>It should be a beautiful sight to behold. To watch as the large crystalline flakes cascade from their home in the sky to coat every tree, every branch and every patch of earth, leaving a carpet of white in their wake that glistens and sparkles under the light of the moon.<p>

Somewhere, maybe not even too far a distance away, a child stares out from their window with wide eyes and the smile of innocence, as they try time and time again to pick one fluff of white out of hundreds and follow its descent, as it tumbles down to rest gently on the world below.

The contrast between two entirely different paths, laid out on what may as well be two entirely different planets is undeniable and painfully evident.

As the driver of the truck comes to a stop, as he grabs a flashlight and throws open his door, he looks to the carnage he helped to create and the world is suddenly devoid of even one shred or speck of beauty. He stands, unable to move or catch his breath as he gazes out and looks upon the unmatched ugliness of it. He is face to face with blackness and horror and is mesmerized by the distance that the other vehicle has travelled, its wreckage finally coming to rest alongside the edge of a patch of spruce trees.

The Impala. Her wheels still continue to spin, they creak and groan as if in continuous battle, in constant preparation for the moment when they touch pavement again, ready to lead the two men in her care to their next destination. They spin in a useless effort to gain traction on the impossible surface they find themselves against. There is no road or pavement on which to gain purchase. There is no ice or snow underneath for them to cling to. There is only air.

The Impala. The silent yet constant haven, the source of rest and comfort that her passengers unknowingly seek her out for, now lays twisted and mangled, her sleek body marred by the violence and trauma of a last fight, as her undercarriage is vulnerable and exposed to the elements and the soft, relentless fall of the crisp, clean snow. Her wheels turn slower and slower, as if finally ready to admit defeat against an overwhelming foe. They spit and sputter until they finally go still, in what could be akin to the sound of their last breath. And only then does the loyal Winchester have no choice but to follow her charges into silence.

He fumbles for his phone as he tries to manoeuver his way across the icy road; as a child not too far away stands outside to revel in the chance to enjoy the magic of the snow and feel the touch of it on their face.

He struggles to keep his panic in check and curses as it takes three tries for his shaking hands and fingers to manage to dial 911, hindered by nerves and the unrelenting snow; as somewhere, not so far away, a different child stands in a parka, mitts and toque, ready to stick their tongue out and squeal in delight when they catch their first flake.

And somewhere else still, not so far away, there are others who watch the snow continue to fall. They watch its descent to the earth at the exact moment that a battle of life and death is being waged on the side of some no name road.

He hesitates for just a moment before he navigates the side of the ditch, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat into his gut, the shiver of genuine fear crawling along his spine in preparation of what he may find. He has seen no movement and has heard no voices, the only sound the quiet slosh of the fresh fallen snow under his feet.

Yet somewhere else it is a perfect postcard scene. On this one night of the year, more than any other, it is a sight that holds more awe and wonder for young and old alike. The beauty and magic is watched from outside and in, as person after person relishes the simplicity of it and feels a flood of optimism that anything is possible, as they observe the stunning and breathtaking Christmas snow.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Wow, this chapter is much longer than I had anticipated, maybe I felt guilty for the shortness of the last one ;) I can not tell you how overwhelmed I feel for your wonderful comments on this, they mean so very much! I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Thanks again for taking the time to read.**

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><p>As he reaches the car he rests his hand on its frame in a futile attempt to calm his shaking nerves. He sighs as he takes a moment to gaze at the once beautiful Impala. He may not be an expert on cars, but even with its wheels now reaching to the sky, even with the scratches and dents, he can still see a vehicle that has been looked after lovingly. The ebony skin shines through, the dusting of snow somehow not able to infiltrate each and every part of her.<p>

He pauses at the thought, at the tireless work that someone has put in; at how many hours of spit and polish and sweat were shelled out to keep it as gorgeous as the day it rolled off the lot. He sighs sadly because it has now been reduced to a mass of steel. All the love and work erased in a heartbeat as it lays discarded, like a piece of trash that someone has dumped at the side of the road. He is startled out of his inner dialogue by a sound he had almost given up on. A voice. A weak and breathless one, but still, a voice just the same. Thank God.

He concentrates on it and follows the whisper on the wind with a renewed sense of hope.

"D...Dean? Just.. please..say something...anything... please... need to know y..you're okay."

He fires up his flashlight and calls out to the voice with his own.

"Hello? Listen, I've called 911, help is on the way."

"H...Hello? S..someone... please... someone there?"

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><p>The child who stares out the window at the majesty of the snow catches a shimmer of light in the distance. The smile on his face widens and he closes his eyes as the meaning it holds floods through him. The child backs away hurriedly from the window, the picturesque scene outside forgotten as the warmth and significance of that sign quickens his movements. He heads out into the night, his focus now only on that glistening sign, as he readies himself to embrace his role in its appearance.<p>

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><p>He flies around to the passenger side and as his light catches the sight of a hand, its fingers splayed, slowly being devoured by the fresh falling snow, he stops to swallow again. He inches forward and grimaces as the softness under his feet changes to the undeniable crunch and crackle of glass and debris as it splits and shards under his weight.<p>

He clears a patch to squat down beside the unmoving digits. He unconsciously reaches out to take them in his own, anxious for any evidence that the voice he just heard wasn't only wishful thinking. He squeezes lightly, overcome by emotion and the need to hear that soft voice again, to catch sight of a living, breathing person attached to the cold hand he now holds.

When no response is forthcoming, he shines his flashlight through the space the window once occupied, only to gasp softly as two hazel eyes stare into his own. He exhales roughly as his wide eyes take in the damage. Ordinary objects; water bottles, a map, a cell phone and a package of M&M's now seem anything but, upended from the drink holder or the console or the glove compartment that they once occupied to come to rest on the overturned roof. Dislodged pieces of metal and debris, bent and melded in shapes and angles that don't make any sense jut out from everywhere to make his blood run cold.

As he combs the interior with the yellowish hue of his light, he can see the outline of another man as it casts an eerie silhouette from the driver's seat. He can't see the features of him, his face turned out into the night; and if this were any other moment in time he may have thought the man just decided to take a rest against the steering wheel. But the reality is that in all likelihood, the contact of skull against wheel was full of utter and complete violence. The window beside him has been blown out by the brutal impact that is was defenseless against, and the truck driver shivers when he notices the man's hair slowly being saturated by the wetness of the snow.

God. There are two men trapped in this heap of distorted metal. Hell, two kids really, young enough to be his own sons lay bleeding and broken in the confines of their once pristine Impala.

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><p>The child who frolics and plays outside, who has caught flake after flake and has felt each one dissolve from the warmth of their tongue, dawns a smile even more cheerful than the moment before. It's time. The bright beacon calls out to her. She abandons her pursuit of the falling snow and heads out towards it, happily skipping as she goes.<p>

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><p>"Off... light... off...please..."<p>

He flinches at the soft plea and chides himself for getting caught up in the chaos displayed all around him. He hurriedly directs the light away from the interior and the young man's face, his lids closed and his features contorted in pain. He leans further in and notices the large amount of blood that seems to ooze out from a nasty gash above his eye along with the fact that his body seems to have taken on the contortion of a pretzel.

"Shit, I'm sorry. Umm, I've called for help, it's on the way. Just hang in there son, they will get you and your friend out of here, I promise. I'm... I'm just… God, I'm so sorry, I... I didn't see you until it..." He bows his head and can't help but sniffle as the truth of it slams into him, hard. He hit this car and these boys are... they are probably on the verge of death, because he didn't react soon enough. "I didn't see you until it was too late... I couldn't... I tried but... I couldn't... shit... I didn't..."

He stops his ramble at the slight twinge of pressure against his palm. He looks back up and can see those same hazel eyes glisten, illuminated by the moonlight that seems to be directly above them now.

"S'okay... not y'fault... s..stupid snow... d... don't blame you..."

He stares back in awe and disbelief, the words slowly filter and tumble around in his head. This man, someone's son, who lays twisted and in obvious agony, sends him a look of such forgiveness along with a ghost of a smile that it shakes him to the core as another pang of guilt rips through him. The sting of warm tears against the corner of his snow whipped skin makes him drag a shaking hand across his face. This... this young man is doing what he can to comfort _him_.

"Th..thank you son. Now, can you tell me your name?"

"S..Sam..."

"Okay Sam, I'm Greg. Listen, can you tell me where you're hurt? How bad?"

Sam closes his eyes in concentration, as if taking silent catalogue and inventory of his injuries from beneath his lids.

"Uh.. not too bad... concussion... maybe a broken rib or two... and... pretty sure my left arm's busted..."

Greg lifts his head out of the car and breathes in deeply; his roaming eyes scan the snow covered road as he silently begs the night to reveal a flash of multi-coloured lights to tell him help is here. He just stares at the melancholy yellow hazards, as his own vehicle seems to mock him from the other side. Please. Please, hurry. He clears his throat of another lump and leans in to face Sam once more.

"Well Sam, I'm surprised you're still conscious, let alone talking with that sort of list. Sounds like a shitty batch of Christmas presents I gave you there."

"Yeah, you'd think so b..but...huh... let's just say... I've had worse..."

He wonders for a moment how this young man could possibly have had worse injuries than the ones he just described. Must be going into shock. Shit, he should have grabbed some blankets out of his truck.

He's brought out of his contemplations and self-recrimination by an urgent tug on his hand.

"Please... Dean... brother... check him... can't... he's not... always answers... please..."

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><p>Person after person, not <em>every<em> one but many, in that town not so far away, witness the brightness and power of that one light. They begin the journey that will lead them to it, that will bring them together with others who have witnessed and felt the pull of it, to embark on a quest whose outcome has not yet been determined in certainty, that they have been given the chance to be a part of.

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><p>Shit. Not just friends, brothers. He sideswiped a couple of kids probably headed home for the holidays.<p>

"G..Greg...Dean...please..."

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><p>There is a gathering in the square, in the centre of that town not so far away.<p>

Old. Young. Men. Women. Children. They flock around the radiance and grandeur of the Christmas Tree that rises from the earth to spread its branches towards the heavens, its glistening star the beacon that has summoned them to that exact place. They wait patiently for word of who it is they have been beckoned to this place for, who out amongst the world has been chosen, what man or woman they have been called upon to save.

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><p>It's the desperation and overwhelming grief that he hears in that breathless voice now that makes him ponder briefly about the obvious closeness these two brothers have. His heart drops as he realizes there has been absolutely no movement or sound from the driver. He eases Sam's hand out of his and looks him straight in his glazed over eyes.<p>

"I'll go check on him Sam. You just… just try and relax okay, help should be here any minute."

"Th...thank you."

His breath quickens slightly as he rounds the front of the car, not having dared to look too closely from his previous vantage point. He sucks in a breath and bites his bottom lip to keep his emotions from spilling out, mindful of this man's brother only a few feet away.

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><p>The murmurs and speculation stop as the speaker emerges to address them.<p>

"Welcome. As you recall, when you first arrived in your new home, it was made known to each of you that this day would come, that when the light appeared to you it meant that you were among those chosen to fulfill a mission. Each of you that stand here, side by side, have witnessed the brilliance of that light and have come together for a common purpose. This is a chance for you to repay someone without whose help you may very well never have found your way into this paradise.

I am sure that each of you is anxious to know for whom you have been summoned. Although time has no meaning in this place, some of you have been waiting to be called for years. Others have become new residents into our kingdom only hours ago."

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><p>The snow, the white blanket that steadily covers the ground and trees and seems to be trying to cover all evidence of this terrible scene has taken on a horrific hue. It is slowly being tainted and poisoned, changing into a thing of nightmares right before his eyes.<p>

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><p>"And so it is on this night, as with every Christmas Eve, as the snow falls here it also falls somewhere upon the earth. You are here because that same snow falls upon a tired and weary soul who struggles to survive. Soon he will begin his journey and will make his way to us. As he passes by you, remember who this person is and what he has done for each and every one of you. This man, who each of you remembers with fondness and gratitude and love is, at this very moment, waging a battle for his life.<p>

Not only does he face the enormity of physical injury but as his body fights, so too does his mind. He is scarred and wounded beyond the layers of his flesh, his heart weighs more and more heavy in his chest and he questions whether it is worth the battle to carry on even one more day."

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><p>A black river seems to flow steady and sure, its origin from within the car's frame. He doesn't need the flashlight to tell him what the murky liquid is. Blood. Everywhere. It reaches its ghastly fingers outward, relentlessly staining the blanket of white into a sickening crimson shade. It seems to not only burn a hole like acid through the freshest layers of snow, but also straight into the heart of the man who looks upon it.<p>

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><p>"Ultimately it is not our decision to make. He alone will choose his own path, thanks to that pesky little thing <em>he<em> likes to call... Free Will..."

The speaker stops momentarily as a combination of gasps and uttered disbelief erupt from the crowd to slowly dissipate into a nervous silence, as that one phrase lingers out on the air and gives each of them the answer to the question of whom it is they have been brought together for.

"But, we _can_ and _will_ show him the gratitude and love that his heart seems to have forgotten is there for him, from so many. This is what has led you here and this is the mission you have been called upon to perform. Whether he chooses to follow the road back from where he came, or the path that will keep him here to exist in this realm matters not, as long as he does so free of guilt and torment and pain. Whatever the result, our goal is clear.

We must save Dean Winchester."

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><p><strong>TBC... <strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi and welcome back. Thank you to all who have taken the time to read this and for sending such wonderful comments my way, I am overjoyed that you are liking this journey. This chapter? Not so warm and fuzzy and kind of short but I hope that you will still enjoy. Thanks again!**

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><p>The trucker stares, paralyzed and immobile like an out of place statue that has no business standing out in the night amongst the snow and wreckage and blood. Blood. It's caked to the snow, solidified right into the crystals held within. His boot unconsciously manoeuvres a drift of pure, untainted flakes over the soiled surface, its invasive violation making his foot move to cover up the irony that pierces right into him. Tonight of all nights, when a mantra of Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men rings out and is celebrated around the world, nothing could be further from the truth. There is no peace. There is no goodwill towards these two young men.<p>

He shivers and pulls at his jacket in an act of futility, as if to somehow stem and halt the pervasive, frigid wind that has gripped and clawed its way through his layers of clothing to inundate his skin and every single cell in his body like fingers of ice.

He moves cautiously, his legs immersed in an invisible vat of cement, the weight of each movement sending a pulsating threat of weakness throughout his usually sturdy appendages, reducing them to the consistency of rubber that any moment could reveal their betrayal and drop him mercilessly to his knees. He swipes a quivering hand across his tear streaked face before edging forward to try and assess the damage that has been inflicted upon this brother. To see whether he is still alive.

Flashlight in hand, he aims it at the ground, stunned and sickened and appalled at the permeating tinge of crimson. Okay, first things first, check for a pulse. He angles the light upward to reveal the boy's features. His heart drops slightly because unlike with Sam, he can't tell the colour of his eyes, they remain shut and unmoving. His heart drops further still when no response is emitted at the intense beam of light that he levels and shines directly into the face of Sam's brother.

He edges in to take a closer look and his eyes widen further than the saucers they were just a moment ago. Maybe it was a trick of the new fallen snow in the moonlight, or his own vision deceiving him to keep the truth hidden, but it is morbidly apparent that what he thought he saw earlier was an illusion and dead wrong.

It's not snow, but blood. It wasn't the constant deluge of falling moisture that has sopped his hair and flattened it against his head. It's blood. His head is drenched in the vile fluid. Shards of jagged glass glisten eerily against the luminousity of light he holds in his hand. The offending objects glitter in grotesque brilliance, comparable to the twinkle of a star on a clear and snowless night. They shimmer and shine against the angry redness that coats his face and neck to such an extent that the pigment of his skin in hidden underneath. Piece after piece, shard after shard has embedded itself into his flesh, each one taking opportunity to extract more and more life giving fluid, as it continues to seep out from where it should be contained out into the cold, crisp night.

But, strangely, it isn't the blood or the glass or the matted hair that makes him pause. It's the hands. Both of them are still wrapped around the steering wheel as if stuck in time, suspended and caught in mid motion as if they fought and clung to it with all they had in an unending effort to try and thwart the inevitable punishment and onslaught that whirled around both Dean and his brother.

"G…Greg? Is… is he okay?"

"Just...give me one second Sam."

He slides his hand through the slick layer of blood, careful not to jar any of the glass on his way to reach the man's throat. He closes his eyes, tilts his head to the sky and prays for God or angels or whatever or whoever else is floating among the snow yielding heavens to give him just one heartbeat. Please. He does not want to have to break the heart of the owner of that soft, pleading voice. He presses down and fights to keep control over the distraction of his own heartbeat and rush of blood as it thuds through his veins.

A breath is released, one he didn't even know he held deep within. It's there. Faint and barely detectable but still, it's there. He leans in, his lips hovering above a blood drenched ear.

"Dean? Can you hear me? Please hang on son, you're going to be fine. Please."

"Greg? Please…tell me…"

"He's… I've got a pulse Sam but… God, there's a lot of blood and he… I don't think he can hear me… But, I.. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't think I should move him. Christ, where the hell is that help! Damn, stupid, ugly son of a bitch snow! On Christmas Eve no less! What the hell! Please… God, what am I supposed to do?"

The echo of his outburst floats out into the blowing snow around him until it slowly fades and is replaced by an uncomfortable silence. The quiet is unsettling.

"Sam? I'm sorry, I… I just, I wish…damn it…"

"Listen to me Greg. If... umm... if he's bl..bleeding... need to try and... stop it... pressure... put pr..pressure... shit... um... gotta stop... bleeding first... "

He shakes his hand and hits the side of the car in frustration at himself. Of course he's supposed to stop it. Jesus, he is the one falling apart and it's a half conscious man whose brother is bleeding all over the place who is the one that can think straight. The way Sam talks, first the way he passed his own injuries off like they were a paper cut, and now the calmness in which he deals with the idea of blood gives him the distinct feeling these boys have already seen much more of the nastiness in life than he has or ever will. Some bad shit has gone down around these two and it gives him another round of chills. No one this young should ever have to deal with this.

"Yeah, okay Sam. You're right. Look, I'm gonna head back to my truck and get some blankets and something to try and stop the bleeding."

"Good... y...you go do that..."

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><p>Sam hears the loud and rapid crunch of the man's boots against the snow as he sprints away from them back out toward the road and his truck. Blood. A lot of blood Greg said. But, the truck driver isn't a hunter so he probably doesn't get to see blood in the same degree as the Winchester's do on a regular and almost daily basis.<p>

"Dean, c..come on j..jerk... I can't move and y...your silent...treat...treatment is pissing me off... j..just give me a sign dude... a s..single finger s..salute... a...b...bitch... anything...p...please man... DEAN! PLEASE! DEAN!"

Sam waits but hears nothing but the wind in response. Dean hasn't moved, stirred, or uttered one single sound. Tears burn down his face because Sam can't deny the fact. His brother is in serious trouble.

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><p><strong>TBC... I will be getting into Dean's POV in the next chapter so more warmth and fuzziness is just around the corner! <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi and welcome back. Wow, thank you sooooo much for all of your wonderful and inspiring reviews of this, I promise I will respond to each one of you soon!**

**Sorry but I told a little fib, Dean's POV will not present itself until _next _chapter. I know, I had every intention of this being the moment we see his view but things and that was the plan when I started until things sort of morphed into what you will read below. ****Sorry for any disappointment associated with that fact, I guess this story has a mind of its own. **

**Feel free to let me know if you think I am dragging things on too long, sometimes I do tend to ramble. At any rate, I hope you will still enjoy. **

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><p>She bristles with nervous energy as she skips along the square, her dress fanning outward to add a splash of deep red to the already flowing tapestry of vibrant colours that cloak this place in a blanket of indescribable beauty. She stops to take stock of all the others who mill about, their smiles as wide and expectant as her own. She hears his name pass the lips of so many, as they converse and tell their own story of how they themselves came to be saved.<p>

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><p>Greg growls in frustration, his last nerve straining and stretching as it threatens to snap like a twig from an old and damaged tree caught in the hostile crosswind of a blustery day. He stares angrily in disbelief, as if the hateful glare he sends the flashing 'no signal' will scare the inanimate object enough to break through the night and the storm and magically come back to life. A sigh escapes him, a chorus of expletives hot on its trail at the incredibility of it. He wrings his hands around the wheel of his truck long enough to gather his wits before he heads out into the increasingly frigid temperature of the night, blankets and towels in tow.<p>

He slips and slides across the road, his cargo held tightly against his chest. By the time he is close enough to make out the outline of the car the snow has tapered off somewhat. Although there hasn't been much to be thankful for this night, he'll take any small mercies he and these two boys can get.

He spots an odd shape come into view and as he narrows his eyes on the desolate scene; after he blinks to make sure his vision isn't playing tricks on him, he reaches clumsily in his pocket in a renewed effort to try the phone again.

No service.

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><p>It strikes her then, as her gaze drifts from person to person, that there are so many variations in the ages and in the eras she sees displayed out amongst the crowd. So many cross sections of humankind stare her in the face that the true scope of his touch comes to her and leaves her lightheaded. They range from the very young to the very old, from recent times to those she remembers seeing only in history books at school. So many lives, so many centuries bound here together, every single person anxious to play their part in the salvation of this one, solitary man.<p>

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><p>He swallows at both the beauty and desperation of it. As his eyes travel along the snow covered earth Greg can see the distinct impression and imprint where the once fluffy whiteness lays flattened, something heavy having crushed it from above.<p>

Sam. The young man had somehow managed to peel himself out of the wreck and pull himself inch by agonizing inch around the perimeter of their car. Sam's jacket is pitched in an unnatural angle against his obviously broken limb. It's enough to make the seasoned trucker fight to keep the surge of bile that has stayed firmly in place at the base of his throat from being released, as he wills himself to prevent the addition of another shade of disgust to the already grotesque mixture of bodily fluids that mingle with the once pure snow.

Sam's right hand is fisted in the material of his brother's shirt, his knuckles whitened by the strain as his fingers hang on for dear life, the connection to his brother the only life preserver left on a sinking ship. Tears threaten to spill once again as he bears witness to a bond more powerful than any other he has ever seen. He hesitates as he reaches out to touch that hand, knowing he is about to interfere in something very personal between these two men.

"Sam?"

Sweat and pain cast out in droves from the pores of this skin, the quickness of his breaths and the glassiness of his eyes. His total lack of acknowledgment of the other man's presence is a strong indicator as any that it took what little strength he had remaining to pull the stunt to manoeuvre his way to lay beside his brother.

"Sam? Can you hear me son?"

Those hazel eyes close for the briefest moment before they open to face him.

"Greg? Dean's… hurt… needs…me... had to g..get..get to him…"

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><p>She <em>should<em> be amazed and astonished by the sheer number of them but for some reason she feels neither shock nor surprise. It fills her deep brown eyes with tears; the sight of so many, the throng of residents who have been released just as she has to this place, to finally have found peace by way of a man who has never been given the opportunity to feel that emotion as his own. The thought that he does not believe himself worthy or deserving of it sends a flutter of sorrow to spasm through her heart.

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><p>"I've got some blankets and towels here Sam, you just stay there and I'll get the two of you wrapped up and warm in no time. Please son, I may not be a doctor but I don't think someone with broken ribs should be moving around."<p>

"Not…broken… wrong… just br..bruised…"

"Well, I guess that's good news then?"

He smirks at the chuckle that bubbles up from Sam's throat. "Yeah, s'good…"

"Okay, well, I can't get a signal to find out where the hell the cavalry is so I guess you and Dean are stuck with me as your nurse for now."

"N…not worried…not…surprised...W…Winchest..er… luck…"

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><p>She stops her movements and calms herself among the bustle around her. Her eyes close in concentration until she can see his face in clarity beneath her lids. Even now, the conflict of his endless burden tugs at her heart, it is etched into the contours and fabric of his face, turning his once youthful appearance into a rugged terrain that has aged him beyond his years.<p>

She owes him everything. Her freedom. Her life. So bound by hatred and revenge for so many years, she allowed it to fester and eat away at her, until it fragmented and destroyed every molecule of goodness that had been so viciously stripped away. She has been released from her earthly burden, released by this saviour who walks among the world in the guise of an average man, yet his actions show no semblance of either the ordinary or the average.

She has been told she is the latest person to have been saved and it makes her wonder what part she will play, if her appearance to him during his journey will be the one that tips the scale of decision and sets his destiny in motion.

Dean Winchester. He who seems to hold only pain and loss within his heart, unable to know anything of the joy and peace which he has brought out onto the earth and beyond its mortal barrier, needs to feel and embrace the virtues he holds within. She does not want him to join with them this day, not when he has yet to take pleasure in the simple joys that lay all around him but that he is too despondent to see.

She plays with the flower she wears behind her ear before she happily skips along once again and melts back into the mixture of so many.

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><p><strong>TBC... Thanks so much for taking the time to read, I appreciate it more than you know.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Wow, thank you ALL so very much for your comments and for taking the time to read this. I can't tell you how much your reviews and story favourites and alerts mean to me and my little Christmas story! I thought I better get another chapter out as Christmas is now only TWO WEEKS AWAY! **

**Dean's POV is introduced this chapter and I hope after all the build up it doesn't disappoint. Thanks again, I hope you will enjoy!**

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><p>"Uh...Greg... can you help me… to sit up… freezin' my ass off out here…"<p>

Greg chuckles and rolls his eyes at the obviousness of Sam's comment. It takes a few minutes but soon the lanky man has his back against the door and a blanket wrapped around him, his hand only absent from his brother for that short passage of time. The two men work in tandem to assess the extent of Dean's injuries as they carefully rid shard after shard from his face and neck.

Neither one says it aloud but they both think the same thing. These pieces of glass cannot possibly be the cause of the amount of blood that has seeped from Dean to spill into the night. As much as neither of them wants to do it, or wants to admit it needs to be done, they know is has to be. Help hasn't arrived and they don't know if it will. They have to get him out of the car and into Greg's truck because they, and he, are running out of time.

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><p>He sees a young, beautiful girl in a red velvet dress adorned with a big white bow, a sprig of holly tucked delicately behind her ear. Her smile beams as she eyes the gift she clutches in her hands, her fingers playing nervously with the paper. The odd angles and shapes; a snowman, a Merry Christmas, Santa and couple of his reindeer pals are loosely folded in such a way that it tells him she wrapped it all by herself.<p>

He grasps at the memory of another young child, of Sammy, his small hand extended towards him bearing a gift of his own, with a smile wide and full of love. How he wishes his brother could have stayed like that, how he _could_ have if he would have just let him be once he broke away from the Winchester curse. Sure, Sam has tried to convince him that no matter what, he would have eventually been pulled back in, like a moth to a light thinking it's the moon and finding out too late as his fragile wings begin to burn, that he has been drawn to the flame.

Sam is wrong. It's _he_ who has been the cause of so much of his brother's pain and sorrow. He... he should never have drove out to Stanford, should have had the courage to search for their dad alone. He should have walked away from him for good so he could at least try to have some semblance of a normal life. But no, his own insecurity and fear of being alone overshadowed his brother's needs and they were forgotten. In the end, _he_ was the one who dragged the person who means the most in the world to him, the one he was supposed to protect at all costs, straight into Hell alongside him.

He is brought out of his melancholy thoughts by a soft, gentle, and slightly out of tune rendition of Jingle Bells as it plays joyfully from the girls' lips. Her legs, wrapped in white tights, their tips covered by shiny black shoes, shuffle in time to her own version of the classic carol.

He basks in the pure joy of the scene just as something dark and sorrowful scratches at the back of his mind. He sluffs it off, no intention of letting anything destroy his chance to catch a glimpse of how this part of life is _supposed_ to be. He gazes at someone's little girl who is just chomping at the bit with anticipation for the moment when that gift, so obviously full of love and care, is opened. He smiles freely at the innocence of the young life that stands there, ready to embrace the magic and awe and excitement when the paper is ripped and the contents are finally revealed.

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><p>"C'mon Dean… give me a sign here… please man…"<p>

He presses against the side of his face, his eyes boring into his brother's lids, willing them to open up and tell him to quit hovering. The small, almost inconsequential flutter of movement in response to the pressure of contact against Dean's skin lights Sam's face like he has just been handed the most precious gift of all. He beams a smile so bright that it should illuminate the darkness and shower the area in a soft, gentle glow. He delights in that one small movement, the first indication they have had that Dean is still there, that he is still hanging on. He hopes that consciousness is only another minute away.

"That's it...come back..."

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><p>He flinches as he feels a current of pain sweep in and infiltrate the side of his head. Something is wrong. He keeps his gaze on the girl and gasps as those same eyes that just seconds ago were wide with the level of excitement only children seem to possess each December, turn dull and glaze over in pain. The present she held so tightly drops from her fingers and is forgotten as if it never existed. Her mouth opens in a silent scream that changes her features from things of beauty into those of nightmares, macabre and terrifying to behold.<p>

"Dean… you're alright… you're okay, time to wake up now…"

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><p>She looks to the ground, the shiny black shoes now marred with soil and earth, the rips in her flawless tights reveal scratched and broken skin, their white glow now stained in the unmistakeable tinge of blood. Like ashes in the wind, pieces of her perfectly manicured dress tatter and fall as they ignite in a shower of fire and flame. He looks to her face once more, an abhorrent and deformed picture of despair and betrayal, of hatred and loathing. Her clothes flitter away from her body until she herself is encased in the ravages of fire. A moment more and she is nothing but bone and debris, her skeleton forced to give way as the muscle and tissue forego their fragile claim on their bid to hold it upright and it crashes to the earth in a smoldering pile at his feet.<p>

He gasps and shakes and fights to fill his lungs with another intake of air, choking on the stench and fumes of smoke as they billow outwards from her bones. He stares at the remains until he feels the scorch of heat on his hand. Turning to find the source, he groans when he sees a flickering match held in his fingertips. _He_ did this. _He_ burned her. _He_ lit her bones up and walked away like she was nothing.

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><p>Neither Greg nor Sam are ready for or expecting the sudden movement. Dean's hand starts to shake as if trying to rid some foreign substance off the tips of his fingers. The green eyes still remain hidden and Sam figures his brother is clueless as to where he is. Sam grabs instinctively for his brother's flailing arm with his right hand and squeezes it tight, exhaling rapidly as he does his best to ignore the jolt of pain that rips through his opposite, mangled appendage.<p>

"Dean! You…you need to calm down. Open…open your eyes dude… I'm here Dean… it's me… it's Sammy…"

Sammy? He hates the worry and pain that intertwines its way through his brother's voice. The girl, the ashes and the smoldering fire are gone, replaced by the sound of Sam's voice in his ear.

"DEAN! LOOK AT ME DAMMIT!"

The force of Sam's demand, followed by a rattling cough and the sound of an unfamiliar voice, forces him to pry his uncooperative eyes the widest they are willing to go.

"S'mmmm?"

He hisses at the sheer volume and scope of the pain that washes over him. His face, his throat and his insides in general join forces to exact as much agony as he has ever experienced, as they try to kill him on the spot. He grows weak and lets out a groan from each wave of unrelenting torture.

"Relax bro, you're okay. Well... huh, look... like shit... and probably feel it too... but... still..."

Sam comes into view, a smile of relief washed across his blurry and drifting in and out of focus face. He tries to move, tries to give his brother a thumbs up or a smart ass remark to erase the creases of worry still evident on his brother's face, but his body starts to spasm, everywhere, so he opts to stay still instead. He will deny it later but truth be told, he could really use one of Sam's infamous chick flick moments right about now. He rolls his eyes to the extent that he can and it floods back to him like a tidal wave.

Graveyard. Snow. Car. Truck. Ditch.

"truck…driver…okay?" Please, he doesn't want to be responsible for another meaningless death.

His eyes flutter and his head pounds at the strain of that one simple act. He sees a Bobby look-a-like move into his field of vision, complete with beard and ball cap.

"Hi Dean, Greg's the name and not to worry, I'm just fine. Your brother and I were just talking about how it's about time we got you out of here and into my nice warm truck. I bet you'd like that. Besides, you two are in need of some repair I think and since the help I called for doesn't seem to be shaking their asses to get here, we'll just have to take care of it ourselves."

It's meant to come out in a joking kind of way but Dean is no stranger to the look that he sees written on the man's face. He's worried, he's out of his element and he's fighting to keep things together. Figures. Just one more name to add to the long list of lives touched by his taint. He just wants it to stop already. No more.

"Dean? M'sorry bro.. but we got…gotta move you…"

Something is wrong with him. With Sam. Sure, he may not be able to see worth a shit but his ears are working just fine and Sam is talking like he is in pain, his words are laced and dripping in the stuff.

"hurt? You…Sam…"

"I'll answer that. He was knocked around some, broken arm, concussion and he says he's got a couple of bruised ribs. Nothing a trip to the nearest hospital won't fix. I promise Dean, he's doing surprisingly well."

"Kay… good… um…. S'm?...where?..." It's getting harder and harder to concentrate, his brain muddled and mixed up and hell, he doesn't even feel that cold anymore.

"Dean? stay awake… please…"

He lets his lids drift down, unable and unwilling to deal with the cacophony of separate assaults and battles that his body is definitely on the receiving and losing end of. Not to mention the fact that his baby is totalled and he seems to have a constant myriad of images whirling their way through his brain. People. Those he has loved, and lost. Those he has killed. Those he… Enough already. He is tired of playing and longs for the quiet of sweet oblivion, where he doesn't have to feel anything, ever again.

"M'tired… s…sooooo t'red… too much… s'all too much… wanna sl…sleep..hurts…"

"I know but… you have to try… stay… please… Dean?"

All he has to do is let go and then Sam, and the world, would finally be free of his poison. He breathes in at the thought of his brother. Of Sam. But he'll be alright, Greg will make sure he is taken care of.

"c...can't do this... anymore... s'ry S'mmmmy…"

The warmth that seems to flood his body slowly chases away all remnants of the freezer that his body felt it had been contained in.

Peace and numbness travel through his limbs and brain but he feels a twinge of something in his chest, like he is missing a huge piece of an important jigsaw puzzle. He's supposed to do something. He's... well, if he can't figure it out then he is just as content to drift along in this state of euphoria until like everything else in his life, the rug gets pulled out from under him and he crashes back down, hard.

_"Dean? God, Dean… please, open your eyes man"_

Right. Sam. Sorry but not this time. He doesn't want to talk about it. He's tired of talking, tired of everything. Wants to let it all go. Too tired to keep up the image and facade of being fine because that is the last thing he is.

_"He's still breathing but… Sam, we can't wait any longer, we need to get him out of here. God, come on son, please, don't die."_

Huh. He figures that sort of statement should probably make him panic, or at least bother him a bit. Die, that is one of those words that is just plain bad. But, he likes the drift that he is caught in, likes the way his body starts to turn numb as the pain seems to ebb away from it, and his heart doesn't lie as heavy, his mind unable to conjure up and torment him with all the crap things he has done.

_"Dean! Please bro! Hang on, don't you dare do this to me! Fight this damn it! PLEASE!"_

He would like to, really, just to get the panic and concern out of his brother's voice but it's like he is no longer in control of himself. He feels a gentle touch on his hand and he does his best to squeeze back, in what might be a final farewell to his brother. With that one seemingly monumental task complete, he lets his head roll to the side, a peaceful sigh escaping from his lips as he succumbs to the tranquility and awesomeness that the calling darkness covers him in.

"DEEEEAN!"

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><p>There is warmth on his skin and the glow of brightness under closed lids. He feels his hands around the wheel of his baby, gripped so tight that his fingers ache. He slowly opens his eyes and peels himself away from the steering wheel, a small chuckle rumbling up from him at the thought that he actually fell asleep at the wheel holding on to her like his life depended on it or some shit.<p>

He gazes out the side window and the fiery globe in the sky sears itself into his retinas. He closes his eyes to clear away the spots in his vision before he opts to look through the windshield instead. He sees a light, gentle snow, watches it as it falls and is mesmerized by the beauty of it. The way the sun seems to catch each individual flake and how they shine like glowing embers, like tiny meteors that burn their way through the atmosphere to deliver one hell of a fireworks display. It truly is breathtaking. But wait... there was something much more sinister about the snow, right?

And, hold on a minute. The sun? But, wasn't it just night? Doesn't make sense, since when do he and Sam decide to stop and sleep in the damn car? No, something is off. He turns his body to face the passenger's side, intent on asking his brother how they ended up at the side of the road for a little siesta but is met by an empty seat. Sam. Gone. Okay, now he knows it for sure. Something is definitely wrong with this picture.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Hello and welcome back. Thank you so much for your kind comments on this story, truly, it means so much. Sorry if I have not responded to your reviews yet, I promise I will! :) This is a short-ish chapter as the last couple of days have been quite hectic on the home front so I have not been able to spend as much time writing as I would have liked. This chapter deals entirely with Dean. I hope as always that you will enjoy. Thanks again for taking the time to read.**

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><p>He steps out of the Impala, pausing slightly when the usual groan and creak of her body is conspicuously absent, to walk a few feet and stand in the middle of the road. Something nags at him, tells him that he shouldn't be here, that being among the majesty of this place is bad, unhealthy. But the ethereal beauty that surrounds him lulls all doubts from his mind, as he is swept up in the serenity and gentleness that seems to embrace him in a shroud and infiltrates every nerve ending in his skin, until it slowly seeps inside to warm even his battle weary soul. He doesn't really care whether he is meant to be, supposed to be here or not.<p>

It is all so perfect, like he's been uprooted and plunked smack dab in the middle of a postcard. He has never really had a chance before, has never paused long enough to notice how the snow clings to the bark of the trees like a blanket that is slowly being woven, piece by piece, to cover each branch and trunk within its gentle embrace. It hugs the side of the road and gathers softly around his feet. Drifts of snow compliment the unwavering purity of nature as it lies untouched and unmarred by the ravages of man. He blinks away tears of joy as he takes in the utter and complete perfection of it.

Quiet. Peaceful. Serene. This right here, this is everything that he has longed and hoped for. He stands amid the absolute opposite of what his life has been and meant so he will ignore the soft, pleading voice in his head that tries to snap him out of it. He can and deserves to take one tiny, miniscule speck of time to enjoy and relish in its undeniable appeal.

He delights in the sound of nothing, at the feel of nothing but the sun as it heats his pale skin. He lifts his head to the sky to invite and welcome more currents of warmth as if he has been so cold and devoid of temperature for so long that he has all but forgotten the sensation. He watches and waits as shimmering flakes float slowly and languidly from above to brush against his lashes and skin, as if the moisture that caresses him is a living, sentient being. His mouth opens and he sticks his tongue out and laughs heartily as the first flake reaches it and dissolves. He stands like that, like a damn kid on the first snowfall of the year, but could care less if he is a few decades behind because damn if it doesn't feel great.

His mouth pops closed and he stands motionless, unable to move as he is overcome by the experience, as he treasures the awesomeness of it and fights to hang on to the feeling and freedom of it before it will inevitably leave, just as everything he has ever loved or enjoyed always has.

His eyes open and he breathes in deeply, the air fresh and clean and wonderful as it travels into and expands his lungs. He greedily sucks in another breath, his insides suddenly addicted and aching for another taste of its purity. There is no pungent odor of death or decay, no smoldering ruins of lives or homes. Just sweet, delicious and untainted air. He exhales and despite the sprinkle of snow and the way he catches sight of his breath condense like his baby's muffler when heat meets cold, there is a lack of chill in the air.

He takes in one more deep breath and watches it stream outward as it is slowly released. It takes on a apparitional form, it wisps away from him in a slow spiral to finally dissipate into nothingness, as if it never existed at all. Just like when...

His eyes dart fervently and rapidly, his body suddenly rigid and ready for a fight as he tries to hone in on the imminent danger. He circles on the spot but finds nothing amiss, there are no shadows lurking just out of view, ready to strike. Strange. Usually that unexplained mist is a precursor to the moment when some undead thing tackles him or, more often than not, launches him gracelessly into the air, its sole purpose to impact his head against the nearest gravestone.

But, he feels nothing foreboding about this place, in fact he feels the exact opposite. He feels good, almost relaxed. There is no quiver, no tingle in his hunter senses, only stillness, like they have been cut off from the rest of his body, forced into silence against an overpowering sea of calm. He doesn't see anything and doesn't feel anything supernatural or evil so he'll assume he isn't about to get his ass handed to him by a pissed off spirit. And it that's the case, and because that kind of shit always seems to stick to him like he's the only magnet in a room full of painful metal objects, the only conclusion his tranquil mind can draw is that this, whatever he is caught up in, is definitely not real.

A sad sigh escapes his lips at that. It's too bad, he could really get used to a place like this. That thought drums along inside and begs the question to be asked.

"Okay, so where the hell am I?"

He turns on his heel intent to get back in the car and go _somewhere _but when he catches sight of his home on wheels, he can almost hear the thud of his chin hit the pavement like one of those cartoons he used to watch when he was still full of innocence and free of taint. A pang of sorrow and melancholy floods him as a long hidden memory rushes to the surface.

He sits at the table, spoon clenched in his hand and milk spitting out of his mouth to dribble down his chin as he laughs, worry and carefree at the antics of his favourite Saturday cartoons.

He gulps as he stares like a stranger into a life that is no longer his. His mom, she is right there. Her long, flowing hair falls gently across her features, a pale and manicured hand loosely tucking it behind her ear. Her cheeks and eyes are immersed in that special glow that all expectant mothers own, a smile etched in her face even as she gently scolds him to keep his mouth closed when he eats. She kisses the top of his head and mutters something about angels before she places a gentle kiss on her own fingertips and places them lovingly on her expanded belly.

He takes in a shuddering breath. Sam.

"SAM!"

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello and welcome back. I hope you will enjoy this latest chapter, it was more difficult to get out than I anticipated. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed this, I appreciate it so very much!**

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><p>He leans in until his mouth hovers just above his brother's ear.<p>

"Dean, please… You can't… you can't give up… not you. Don't… don't you dare do this to me… please…not… not after everything. You… you're all I have left… you can't man… not… not like this… not like this…"

He is crying now, openly and uncontrollably at the side of some damn road in the middle of nowhere. He gasps as he tries to breathe in, the sear of pain rippling across his side and up his arm, the fire almost forcing him to follow his brother's lead into the sweet cocoon and reprieve of blackness. His head throbs and his heart has tunnelled its way down into the depths of his stomach to settle there like a dead weight. He feels his last reserve of strength begin to give way until his forehead rests against his brother's, the contact the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the ground. His soul darkens as he stays there, unaware of anything else but the uncharacteristic silence that has fallen like a shroud over his brother.

This is wrong. It's unnatural and eerie and messed up. Dean. He just lies there in a tangled heap, motionless and still. Those two words burn and blister into him like acid. The irony they represent, the quintessential opposite of all his brother is tears him into like a knife.

Not like this. His self-assured, pain in the ass, nothing will ever get one over on him brother is not going to go out like this, not without guns a blazing and profanities of every description being spewed out like venom into the night.

He pulls back and scans his brother's face for any sign of life. Another pang of cruel sadness stabs him as those eyes stay stubbornly closed. His gaze travels slowly downward to fixate on his brother's chest. His eyes try to burn a hole right into it, a spiral of panic making itself know as each second passes, the burn in his eyes ever increasing as he waits for that one flicker of hope to show itself.

He sighs when it arrives, when the small flutter of movement tells him that his brother just took another breath. It's a vicious cycle and he feels like he is stuck in a perpetual loop in a twisted game. He waits for another breath, panics when it doesn't come soon enough, only to feel the short lived burst of relief when the breath finally comes. He sits there and stares, as round and round he goes. Panic, relief as his brother takes in another shallow breath, and then panic once again.

Greg turns away to allow Sam some privacy in his all consuming grief. He can't stop them this time, the desperation in the young man's voice and the defeat that he heard in Dean's egging the tears on until they finally let go of their precarious perch to cascade in droves down his face; that has now been cast in a permanent frown of worry and concern.

He isn't going to do any good to either of these men if he stands there in an act of indecision and hopelessness.

Action. Now.

"Sam, I'm going to bring the truck over. Sam?"

"Mom… dad… Jess… you've… you've seen me through it all Dean… when I didn't think I could… make it. After all… the shit we've been through… you can't go out like this… not like this…"

Greg turns to Sam once more, his own heart ripped out of his chest to be stomped on until it lays shattered into tiny pieces, ground into the icy earth. People, so many people to have lost already. If these boys are all that remains they need each other more than most, and he'll be damned if he is going to watch them slip away.

He leaves Sam's side then, intent on purpose and resolve. He jumps into the cab, anger and fear rolling off of him in waves. Not going to happen. This will not be the end for Dean or for his brother, not while he still has air in his lungs and blood in his veins. He reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out his phone, a gust of air releasing from him as he flips it open.

It almost hurts, the smile that threatens to crack his face in two. A signal. He has a signal and although he wants to do a happy dance and holler out into the night, he isn't about to waste it. He dials the number, fighting to keep his emotions in check. He almost screams out in relief as the voice sputters out from the other end.

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><p>Word has travelled from person to person, whispered from voice to voice. He is here. Right now. He is on the road that will lead him here, into their town not so far away. But there is another murmur that overtakes the joy upon this knowledge, a dark, looming cloud which only increases the already palpable urgency in their midst.<p>

Time. It grows short. His body continues to weaken and his mind continues to battle the weight of all that he has done and seen. They need to act swiftly or he will be lost to them, as his spirit edges ever closer to the moment of decision.

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><p>She feels gratitude and honour in the role she has been selected to play, as she hovers above the road to bear witness to the scene as it unfolds. He is on the road. He is here. Her heart flutters with joy and profound appreciation as she gazes at him, her eyes brimming with affection and love. She has watched him thrive in the simple beauty of the snow. Tears of her own descend as she realizes he has never seen the world in this way before. Beautiful. Serene. Peaceful. So touched by death and pain through every facet of his life that not once has he just stopped to soak it into his pores like the refreshing sensation of a fresh fallen rain. He knows nothing but the fight and the hunt. He has never been given one moment of rest or the ability to reflect upon the pleasures that are all around him, that the world showers and bestows upon its inhabitants each and every day.<p>

She has been told she was the first to be freed by his hand, so many years ago. She swells with the significance of that, with the knowledge that she was the first of so many whom have been able to rest because of this one man. She feels trepidation of what his presence here means but is intent on her mission, the one she must and will not fail. She has been sent out to this place, to where he stands on the road in an effort to hasten his journey to them, as his mortal body lingers just above death in the world below. She must do what she can to speed his progress along, so he will continue on the length of the road ahead to reach the town before his choice is made.

She hears the last remnants of his brother's name echo around him until they are absorbed by the trees, the road and the air.

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><p>"Sam?" He isn't here. He places his hands on his knees and works to control the barrage of unease and emotions that the image that slowly fades has churned up within him. He breathes in more and more of the precious air and as he once again is overcome and placated by calmness, he shakes his head at the flashback he just got swept into.<p>

Just a dream, has to be. He would know if Sam was in danger, he has _always_ known. So in sync with him that his younger brother can't even keep a paper cut under wraps without having to undergo Dean's brand of inquisition. He smiles at that, the knowledge that if he doesn't sense anything about his brother then Sam is just fine, it's himself who is stuck in Wonderland trying to find the rabbit hole he jumped into.

He shakes off his worry, confident that he is the one tripping and since this is pretty much the best trip he's ever been on, aims to enjoy every moment of it. He lifts himself up, takes one more look at the shimmering light of the sky and faces his home on wheels once again.

He grins like the Cheshire cat about ready to pounce on an unsuspecting rodent that has just come into view. Wow. Look at her. She is flawless in her perfection. She is there as always, she waits for him in silent vigil, bathed in metallic black with the sun gleaming off her skin with the radiance of an unearthed diamond that's been lovingly polished to allow its true magnificence to shine through. She has never looked this good. Not one speck of dirt, not one flake of slush or grime or evidence of the brutality and savageness she has endured time and time again, as she has followed him loyally into battle. The chrome of the fenders and rims threaten to blind him as they reflect the glare of the sun and seem to burn right through him, like a hot poker through flesh.

He shivers at that, his hand flies up to unconsciously massage the flesh of his shoulder that burned exactly in that kind of way. Burned, stabbed, left for dead so many times that he can no longer count the number of scars that are etched into his skin, his body some kind of twisted roadmap whose destination has always led him to nowhere but places of pain and anguish. As he stares at his reflection, the one that taunts him through his baby's unmarred skin, his face loses any evidence of that lustrous smile it just wore. As he gazes into her perfection, as her marvels at the way she can be brought back from a mass of twisted metal into mint condition over and over again, he realizes he will never be given the same opportunity. He is scarred and maimed and poisoned for life.

And he's had enough.

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><p>She senses his agitation and despair and floats down to rest softly beside his car. Her presence is soft and subtle yet a slight breeze blows as she lands, a small swirl of wind and snow scatters around her figure. His gaze is drawn to the movement, so attuned is he with even the slightest variation of his surroundings that she stills herself entirely. He has sensed the change. He has sensed <em>her<em>.

He didn't just imagine that, the place has been so devoid of even a whisper of change that even a small spiral of wind pulls him away from his musings and sends him straight into hunter mode. Something is there, something has to be. He saw it.

She swallows at the intensity of his gaze, the focus in which he seems to stare straight into the heart of her, honed in to the exact spot she now occupies. She has not willingly shown herself so if he can see her it means it is too late and he has chose to cross over, his path now certain. She feels her heart drop as he continues his unflinching gaze but she detects a flicker of movement in his eyes. He is looking at her, yes, but also beside, behind, and all around her. She sighs and his gaze focuses once more as the pattern of falling snow is again disrupted by her presence.

There it is again. He walks towards the car, eyes boring into the spot of snow that doesn't fall quite right but as his hand touches the metal of his car as he walks by, he feels a rush of warmth and all but forgets about something as trivial as the shape of the falling snow.

He walks around her slowly, sliding his hand along her smooth and immaculate skin, soaking in the feel of it under his fingertips, as if he inhales every single inch and part and metal and memory that she is through the digits of his hand.

He slows as he rounds the back, the truth of his twisted life hidden just beneath her closed trunk, waiting to be exposed and the savagery of his life unmasked. His hand is placed gently and lovingly on the spot where he himself carved dents and divots into her innocent frame. He shivers as he replays the event that caused his unnatural loss of control on this vehicle, his baby who has been his one, constant home.

His dad. Dead. Because of him. He sucks in a stuttering breath and lets go of the car as though it has burned him.

So caught in memories of the past, her movement towards him goes undetected. Tears travel the length of her face, the pain and agony that he feels somehow transposed onto her. So much lost. So many gone. These are the moments that have brought him here, the guilt and anguish like a living thing, feeding off of him until almost nothing of the gentleness and worthiness of his soul remains. He needs to go. Now.

She stands beside him and aches to hold him tight against her in an attempt to soothe the shudder of his shoulders and the enormity of the weight that threatens to crush him. She opts instead to place a loving hand on his face and whisper words of comfort into his ear.

"He is so proud of you Dean. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to fight."

He stops his quiver instantly as the warmth of the sun seems to intensify and he hears his father's voice in his mind. 'I am so proud of you Dean. I don't blame you. I want you to fight' A flood rushes and travels through him, the praise and love of his father's words stop and stem the iciness that had filled his veins. He blinks to rid his eyes of the tears that have blurred his vision.

"Okay, okay, this is definitely a dream." Dreams are weird like that. You flip flop from emotion to emotion, from scene to scene as you are strung up on some damn yo-yo that won't let you off until you're dizzy and spent. Or, and more likely in his case, until the rope finally snaps and you crash back into reality.

He continues his journey around his car until he winds up back at the driver's door.

She smiles sweetly as she rests her hand on his prized possession.

A small click is heard and he flinches as the door opens up on its own. An invitation. His baby, she is inviting him in. Normally that would cause a person to freak out and run for the hills, but since this is just his subconscious messing with him, he may as well see where his beloved Impala thinks he should go.

One more glance at the snow covered trees and the fiery orb in the sky and he steps in. He melts into the driver's seat, the leather perfectly conforms around his body, the contours meld into his frame and if he didn't know better, he would think she was giving him a hug.

Yeah, it's confirmed, dreams are strange.

She comes to life as he turns the key, the familiar rumble under his body bringing a smile of contentment to his face. He takes a deep breath and pulls out onto the open road.

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><p>She watches him leave, the sound of his car making her smile as he travels closer and closer to the town. She revels in the fact that her part in his story is not yet complete. She awaits the moment when she can reveal herself to him and show what his sacrifice has meant for her. She disappears into nothingness then, anxious to bring word that he is now only a short distance away.<p>

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Wow. Thank you all so very much for your lovely and wonderful comments, I cannot tell you what a motivation it is and how thrilled I am that you are enjoying this story. Thank you.**

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><p>He closes his eyes, lets out a gust of air and bows his head as his hand flips the phone shut. He hesitates for a moment, not exactly sure what to do next. What he <em>wants<em> to do is a plethora of converging and contradictory things; cry, or laugh, or maybe punch a fist into the air in silent triumph.

He wants to make a grand entrance when he arrives to tell Sam the news; wants to run, skid to a stop and scatter rocks and slivers of ice across the road and into the night to emphasize to himself, to them and to the whole damn world the magnitude of the fact that help is now definitely on the way. He runs that particular scenario through his brain and embraces the feel of genuine laughter as it erupts from his belly and bellows out into the confines of his truck. It may be nervous and a tad unsure but hell, he delights in the sensation and the release of pressure and tension that his laughter brings. He needs it, he clings to it like a lifeline, afraid that if he stops he will fade back into rivers of melancholy and helplessness. He shakes his head and tacks that particular plan up to a rush of adrenaline and elation because there is no need to tempt fate by giving his weary limbs just enough ammunition to betray him. The last thing this unlikely trio needs is for his old ass to lose its footing, fall to the ground and break a hip, at least not when their first glimmer of real hope has finally jump started its way back to life.

So, with all thoughts of athleticism pushed aside and securely stowed on the back burner, he calmly extracts himself from his truck and opts to take the slow, steady and safe route.

As he walks, his gaze lifts up to peer into the heavens and he basks in it, in the fact that the snow has now stopped and the moonlight that showers him from above seems to have grown in its intensity, as if to help guide him back to the brothers. He may not sprint, but he does have a definite spring in his step. Help is on the way. Help will be here soon. He feels a rollercoaster of emotions; he feels elated, guilty, thankful, and saddened, but also a renewed sense of optimism as it flows all around him, like they have finally been bathed in a sense of reprieve and light. But, as he steps hurriedly towards the scene, the gravity of their predicament once again raises its ugly, savage head to make its presence painfully and brutally known. These boys are still in trouble and any celebration he planned to spout out to the world immediately dies on the tip of his tongue.

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><p>He cracks open the window, no longer content to be without the freshness of the air that lies just beyond the glass. It wafts in and as he is surrounded by it he inhales like he has been starved of oxygen in every preceding moment before.<p>

The murmur of his baby's engine, the echo of her wheels on the pavement is indescribable in its beauty and he will never tire of the sound she utters when she is unleashed and freed to travel on the open road. A reflective smile slowly worms its way onto his features as his gaze tracks to the passenger seat. Sam. How he would love to share his thoughts on the topic right now, to explain to his geeky brother the way the rumble of her body beneath his and the vibration of her engine makes him feel. He smirks and chuckles and he can almost see a shadow of his brother then, can almost hear the sound of his voice emanate from that empty seat.

Sammy. He would roll his eyes and babble about his unhealthy preoccupation and attachment to his baby, and how in turn that would only make him voice even more intimate opinions about her awesomeness, just to take simple joy in the way it would make Sam's skin crawl. Those are the little things life is supposed to be made of. The little points in time that he cherishes the most may be just small and insignificant to the outside world, but to him they are the ones that mean everything.

How his heart yearns for he and Sam to be able to share something so trivial again, to share a moment as brothers. Not because someone has died, not because one or the other of them is knocking on death's door, but just one insignificant little moment, a chance to enjoy each other's company once without the fate of the world hanging on their next move.

His sigh is heavy and full of sorrow. It is so unfair that fate or whatever the hell has pervaded every minute of their existence denies them even one little glimpse into what it is like to truly be alive, to be just a couple of regular Joes in the routine, hum drum, every day world. It used to be different. They have been right here before, two men travelling down the highway and at each other's throats, not because of a hunt gone wrong or from secrets kept and words spouted in anger, but because they don't like the same music or don't share and appreciate beauty in the same way.

A normal life would afford them with those snapshots, the ones most would reflect upon in their later years. A normal life would give them the opportunity to laugh and joke and just be human. But those days are gone, mere shadows of a life long over, one that can no longer be. Those tiny specks of normalcy are so infrequent now that he is certain they will eventually just crumble and fade, like dust caught up in the wind, forgotten in the harshness of their new reality.

And he knows there will be no happy ending, no long life. He will die, bloody and alone, and somehow he can sense that his time is coming soon and it should bother him to think it, but maybe only then will he find the peace he craves.

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><p>He reaches Sam, resisting the urge, the itch within him to blurt out the news they have longed to hear. He stops as he moves ever closer, as he takes in the closed eyes and the evenness of his breath. He feels another twinge of sadness as he looks at Sam's expression, the battle to keep going finally lost against the stronger foes of exhaustion and stress. Sam, the loser in the fight to remain conscious, left with no choice but to succumb to his body's relentless assault and overpowering need for rest. He takes the opportunity to look at him then, to really look. He seems so young and innocent, only the paleness of his skin and the dried blood provide stark evidence of the exact opposite, of the ordeal he has just been forced to undertake. And, although it pains him to believe, he is certain, by the few words spoken by Sam to his brother, that they have seen so much worse. It defies logic and reason that anyone should endure so much.<p>

His eyes gravitate away from Sam to take in the sight of his brother. Dean. His heart burns in his chest and threatens to abandon him to leave a gaping hole in its stead at the still motionless figure. He reaches over, mindful of the fitful rest that holds Sam just on the outer edge of consciousness, to place his fingers tenderly on Dean's forehead. He lightly brushes an errant strand of hair away from his face and takes in his blood streaked features. He is to pale. The freckles that dot his face glare outward like a fevered rash, telling him by the starkness of their appearance the pure savagery of the fight that goes on within his mind and body. He tentatively places his hand against his neck and sighs. It is still there, weakened by the trauma of the night but there is still a rhythm of life underneath his skin. A pulse. He has not given up yet, and if he is still breathing then he is still alive, and there is still hope for these boys.

He adjusts the blanket thrown over Dean in haste and secures it the best he can, in perhaps a symbolic gesture to attempt to keep what little heat he has left in his body from finding an escape into the night. Another young man, forced to deal with not only untold injuries but also a constant deluge from exposure to the elements.

He inadvertently brushes his boot against Sam's leg as he steps back, and flinches in amazement and momentary shock at how even in sleep, as tempered as it is, that one slight and practically imperceptible motion can bring him straight back from the depths into the waking world.

Sam's eyes fly open, his gasp of air the only indicator that his body is itself on the verge of collapse. He grunts once in pain before his face clears to what Greg assumes is a mask that he has mastered to perfection, to disallow his agony to be witnessed by others. The pain of all he has been through, physical and emotional ages him in an instant. Gone is the innocence that lined his features in sleep, replaced by creases and wrinkles of a life filled with anguish and unimaginable loss. What horrors they have seen Greg can only imagine.

Sam's gaze is fixated on the spot where he felt the lightest of touches, his glassy eyes hover there and Greg can see it happen, the instant when his look of anticipation and hopefulness is crushed under the weight of total and utter disappointment. Greg regrets that it is his face that greets Sam's as he blinks the cobwebs of sleep from his eyes, as his brain catches up and he silently acknowledges the fact that it was not his brother who had woken him.

"G..greg? What's wrong?"

His eyes instantly draw themselves to Dean's unchanged form and he stutters out a breath of emotion and guttural fear.

"Nothing has changed son. Dean is still with us and you still have a broken arm and it is still the crappiest Christmas Eve on record."

Sam smirks at that and that one small tug of his lips warms his insides.

"Help is on the way Sam. Finally got through, seems the weather did a number with the ambulance on the way here. The snow has stopped and the road they were trying to pass has been cleared enough so they are about ten minutes out. Help is coming Sam, you just need to hang on a little while longer."

He seems to melt right into the metal of the car, the tangilble sense of relief that oozes out from him enough to make Greg beam.

"Huh. I wasn't… expecting that… great… great news… Greg…"

With one last, loving look and a last touch against his brother's brow, Sam sighs deeply and closes his eyes once more as his fist curls into the fabric of Dean's shirt.

Greg stands and gapes. What he sees here, on the side of a road in the middle of anywhere USA, is the backdrop to a scene that no book or movie of fiction could ever do justice to. This right here is guttural and raw and real, and he has no doubt that it is something that will never leave him.

The truth of what the season is and means stares him straight in the face. Love. It has dripped out of these two kids since the moment he arrived, just as freely as the blood and tears and pleads to hang on that have been spilt out into the snow. He kneels down, tightens the blanket around Sam's shoulders and gives him a quick squeeze.

"Just rest now Sam, you have seen your brother through the worst, just as I suppose he has done at some point for you."

"Y…you have no idea… he's… it's… he's everything… "

"I can see that son. He won't leave you Sam, I may not be the smartest man in the world but I know unconditional love when I see it. You and Dean are going to be just fine."

"Th… thanks Greg… for… everything."

And with that Sam finally follows his brother into the darkness, leaving Greg alone with his thoughts in the middle of the night, on the eve of Christmas. It's tragic, the circumstances that have merged their lives together on this lonely stretch of highway, but it has also rejuvenated his faith that there is still goodness out amongst the world. He feels wetness form in his eyes from the awe that fills him by the fact that he has somehow been chosen and blessed to see it, to observe the power of mankind at its finest, as it unfolds right before him.

As he waits and paces, as he then sits and monitors these two men, he marvels at how inexplicably they have changed him for the better, in the briefest passage of time.

Wait... He stands in eager anticipation, pleading for it to be real. There. He can hear it, and he doesn't mask or deny the tears as they come, but welcomes them openly. He can hear it, there in the distance, on the road not so far away. The sound does not grate into him, it doesn't make him cringe or stand the hairs up on the back of his neck. It soothes him. It travels along the air like a chorus of angels as it grows stronger with each passing second.

There. He can see it like a beacon that calls out to them in the night. He gives the men one last look before he heads out onto the road, the flashing strobes of red, white and blue the sweetest, most welcome combination of colours he has ever seen.

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><p>He lifts his eyes back to the road and slows as a road sign comes into view. Tranquility – 1 mile. He scoffs at that, at the blatant irony and slap in the face his own mind has decided to throw into the mix. Figures. If he is about to invade a sleepy little town in wherever the hell he is, it will soon turn and become the opposite of what its name suggests. Bad karma, bad vibes and unbelievably bad luck have followed him like a lost puppy his entire life. So if he is indeed having an amazingly realistic and by all accounts fairly decent dream, then why ruin it by bearing witness to the infection that he will undoubtedly spread amongst the citizens of so-called Tranquility.<p>

No, he won't stop, he won't play the twisted, distorted game his mind has decided to throw him into. He'll just keep on the road and at the wheel until it stops, or until he wakes the hell up.

No sooner does the thought transmit from his brain than his beloved car starts to sputter and groan.

"Ah hell, come on baby, don't be like that. It's my dream so…."

His eyes scan the dashboard and he curses to himself as the gauge hovers directly above the glaring E.

"You have got to be kidding me..."

She spits and rattles and comes to a less than spectacular stop right at the edge of the town, right under the 'Welcome To' sign that looks like it was transported out of an issue of Homes and Gardens. His eyes narrow in on it and he gets the distinct feeling his dream has taken a turn from slightly odd to downright disturbing. He tries to bring his baby back to life but each turn of the key is met by frustrating silence.

He shuts his eyes and mutters a soft litany of 'please be gone, please be gone' under his breath before he opens them to face the sign once again.

"Well, so much for saving the people of Tranquility a dose of yours truly. Looks like they've been expecting me."

He leaves the comfort of the Impala to stand and gawk at the words that seem to be carved right into the wood, the ones that bore directly into him.

Welcome To Tranquility… Dean Winchester

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Hello everyone and welcome back. Sorry but this is a short, Dean-focused chapter. My original plan was to have this story complete by Christmas but real life has bombarded me with so many unexpected twists and turns this past week that I don't think that goal is reachable. Also, sorry that I have not replied to your wonderful reviews of last chapter, I hope you each know how very much they mean to me. Thanks.**

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><p>Dean Winchester. The sight of his own name, emblazed in big, bold Technicolor makes him cringe. The more he stares, the more the letters seem to shimmer in the light. They ebb and flow within an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour, showered in the most dazzling shades as if a rainbow hides underneath, pulsing within the confines of them just itching to be released.<p>

It doesn't make sense. His name, it should carry a heavy shadow in its wake, any brightness leeched out like the arrival of an eclipse that blots out the warmth and radiance of the sun to cover the world in a veil of frosty blackness. This name, _his_ name, should not be lit up like some sort of invitation for all to see. It ought to be erased, the letters left to crack and shatter, to be swallowed up by darkness to serve as a warning to others, of what the owner has brought to every single thing he has touched.

It doesn't make any sense that he would be welcomed here. He… he is nothing and he is nobody. Well, scratch that, he is _something_, but not the ray of sunshine this stupid billboard is trying to make him out to be. He is a harbinger of death, an omen of it, has been to pretty much anyone and everyone who has been unlucky enough to cross his path. If you see Dean Winchester walking down the street, you better give him a wide berth, or better yet turn and flee, before his infection bleeds into you and you wind up just another casualty of his curse. You don't welcome him with open arms and you definitely don't invite him in on purpose.

His eyes bore into each letter. The light dances all around until it encompasses him in a layer of colour and light. The last time his name was exposed to the world was courtesy of that damn shapeshifter, forever equating him with murder and death. Dean Winchester now stands as a name synonymous with pain and torture. In a blink of an eye his role had changed, he had gone from hunter to the hunted, his prized anonymity stripped away from his flesh. He should have paid attention. He should have taken heed to the signs all around him. Who knew it would take a filthy, supernatural _thing,_ that took his form for such a short period of time to hit the nail on the head. _That_. That is how his name should be remembered, how he _deserves_ to be remembered, not like this.

The flickering of light within doesn't stop but seems to strengthen and intensify, like it is trying to smother the smoldering hatred his own name elicits from him. He watches in fascination as tendrils of colour seem to reach out like ghostly fingers, stretching and yearning to make contact with his skin.

Dean Winchester. He used to be different. His name once stood for loyalty and purpose, for humour and wit and unyielding sarcasm. But now it is marked and pitted, somehow the traits he once prided himself in have been scooped out with each passing hunt, until only a shell of a human being remains, tired and beat and ready to give up the fight.

He moves closer, the flurry of vivacious pigments and pulsating warmth that juts out from them drawing him near. He can't…he can't help but reach out to touch a wispy ringlet of colour as it streams out towards him. Its contact with his flesh causes a ripple of serenity to pulse into him like the beat of a bass drum that gets under your skin and pulls you along in its rhythm.

No. It's too late. Too many things have happened. Too many lives have been stolen. Too much carnage has been doled out. He doesn't deserve to be warm and fuzzy inside, yet he finds it harder and harder to concentrate and hang on to the feelings of self-loathing he needs, he deserves to inflict upon himself. His focus shifts as he is mesmerized by the swirling lights that dance around him, inexplicably drawn to the promise of the lazy little town with the ridiculous and ironic name. Tranquility, the town not so far away, seems to think his name is something to be cherished.

He gulps in a mouthful of air as he is bombarded with positive and peaceful thoughts and memories.

His mother smiles at him and whispers in his ear words of love.

His dad plays catch with him outside in the sun while his mother watches from the lawn chair, a brand new life held delicately in her hands.

Sam. His first smile. His first laugh. The way his tiny hand curled around his big brother's finger and gripped it tight. Such trust. Such love.

Faster and faster the images come, they start to cram themselves into his head to edge and overtake all others. His pain and heartache seems to filter out faster and faster like grains of sand sifted through your fist and left to dissipate and flutter away in the gentle breeze. His focus shifts more and more from all the anguish and sacrifice that has dogged him up until now, to the promise of what lies just beyond the threshold of the town.

He steps away from the sign to begin his journey into Tranquility.

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello and MERRY CHRISTMAS to all! :D**

**THANK YOU sooooo much for staying with me on this journey. This chapter is a longer one as I may not be able to update for a bit. I hope you will enjoy.**

**I wish each of you the best of the holiday season in whichever way you choose to celebrate. **

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><p>Greg stands back and stares at the blur of motion and movement that seems to encompass the wreckage and the two boys within its plume of organized yet somewhat frantic chaos. The intense focus of the activity is apparent. Dean. Vitals, commands and fast footed attendants whirl about in every direction, grabbing equipment from different compartments of the ambulance to be placed beside the car and its only occupant. A neck brace, a board, an IV… the list goes on and on. They shuffle around the still unconscious body of Sam, who has steadfastly held tight to the fabric of his brother's shirt even in the clutches of fatigue induced slumber.<p>

One of the attendants bends down to gently touch Sam's clenched fist to try and delicately remove it from its position.

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><p>He feels a tug on his hand followed by the cramp of his fingers indicating lack of circulation and motion. His grip tightens and his fear surges to the surface as his semi-aware mind tells him that he can't let go, that he needs to hang on with all he has. To hold on is the most important thing.<p>

He tries to peel back the crusted lids over his eyes and startles when a voice cuts through the night and speaks softly to him.

"Sam? Can you hear me?"

The voice is feminine and unfamiliar and he searches his mind to try and place it. He moves slightly and the sensation that rips through his left side makes him cry out in pain.

"Easy Sam, try and relax. Do you remember what happened?"

He scrunches his face in concentration but his memory has been so overcome by a deep layer of fog that he can't seem to find his way out of the mist. But still, the tingle of apprehension and unease perfected by a life full of unexpected and unwanted surprises solidifies into his core and rumbles through him. The details may be hidden behind a curtain of cloud but he trusts his instincts when they say that whatever has happened, whatever event has placed him here is beyond bad.

"You've been in a serious car accident Sam. You've been injured."

Injured. Accident. Car. The fragments float around in the seemingly hollowness of his brain until the disjointed words finally click together and fall into place. He gulps. Dean. _That_ is the most important thing that he needs to keep hold of. He curls his fist tighter in an attempt to reinforce his grip, to solidify his fractured hold, but the foreign hand of the stranger returns and his anger surges as they try to remove his fingers.

"Can't… let go… needs me… D…Dean?"

"Sam, my name is Susan. Listen, we are here to help you and your brother but you need to let go so we can get him out of the car. Do you understand?"

Help. It takes all of a nanosecond for the words to register and for him to tentatively start to release and uncurl his fingers. He forces his eyes to open, the glare and barrage of flashing lights making him both wince and flood with relief. Flashing lights equals ambulance. Ambulance equals help. Help for Dean. The phrase sticks to him and he uses the image it evokes to stave off the sudden bout of dizziness and nausea that grips him tight in an unwanted and suffocating embrace. He breathes in and out and waits for the sensation to begin to subside before he slowly regains his focus enough to see the image of a woman's face. She smiles sweetly at him as she guides his hand down to his side.

"H…how's… he? Dean…"

She blocks his view as he attempts to look beyond her to his brother and places a warm, kind hand on his face. She leans closer and looks him directly in his wavering eyes.

"I know you are worried about Dean but I need to take a look at you okay?"

He tries again to manoeuver around her form and lets out a frustrated sigh when she doesn't budge.

"Dean is being looked after, he's in good hands, I promise. Now, from what Greg has told me and from what I can see you have a concussion, a broken arm and maybe a few badly bruised ribs. Let's get you up and in the ambulance so we can…."

"No! I need... to see him!"

He hisses at the deluge of pain his outburst inflicts upon his body. He concentrates to settle his rising agitation before he speaks again, this time in a hushed tone as if divulging a secret that he has no right to tell.

"I… I'm… Dean, I need to stay… can't leave him… he'll panic... please…"

He swallows back the emotions that threaten to cascade over and crack his fragile control to leave him a weeping mess. He groans inwardly at the ill-timed betrayal of his body and resolve.

"We need to move you so we can have better access to him Sam."

He sucks in a breath and feels like he's drifting somewhere, unable to fathom in any sort of clarity what it is the gentle voice of the woman is trying to tell him. His mind and body are at odds with each other, the nausea making a triumphant return as he fights to keep his focus on what he needs to do. He pushes the sickness down into his gut and focuses on the last vision he has of his brother, silent and still and covered in a layer of blood. All he can think of, all he can comprehend in his strained mind is the fact that they are trying to take him away, they are trying to separate him from Dean.

No, he won't leave him, not like this, not when it may be through the simplicity of his touch alone that Dean is still alive. His brother may not be big on words, may have an overly vocal aversion to the so called chick flick moments that he himself is rather fond of, but take away the physical connection that has seen them through Heaven and Hell and everything in-between and he is liable to crumble into dust. These people, these _strangers_ don't know, they could not possibly imagine how much more power a touch can have than the spoken word when it comes to Dean Winchester.

He kicks his legs out in a futile attempt to scramble away from the person who insists on keeping him apart from the one person who he needs, and who needs him most in this moment. He can feel what little strength he had wane its way out of him and he is forced to give in and settle back against the car in a frustrated heap.

He tries to send his version of a Dean death glare to emphasize his displeasure, but the drum of the lights sends a flare of such intensity into his eyeballs that he can't help but let out a pitiful moan. The burn that courses through his eyes to head straight into his brain seems to diminish slightly as a shadowed figure arrives to loom over him. He sees the blurry outline of a baseball cap and squints to try and make his eyes shift into clarity. Greg. The man towers briefly beside the female attendant before he crouches down to meet him at his own level.

"Sam, please son, you need to listen to her and you need to let her help you. Please, you have to let them work. Besides, do you really think your brother would be happy if he wakes up and he's being fussed over while you have been left out in the cold?"

He gapes at the trucker. His brow knits in thought as he wonders if he had spewed out family secrets in his flight through unconsciousness because damn if Greg didn't just sum up his big brother to a tee. No, Dean would not be happy, he'd be pissed. He closes his eyes and sighs, the drum of an ever annoying and pulsating marching band making its presence increasingly known in his skull.

"Huh… you know us… pretty good Greg…"

Greg can't help but release a stress filled chuckle at that. It isn't rocket science that has propelled him to know more about these two strangers in the last couple of hours than he knows about people he has been friends with for years. From what he has seen and heard through whispered words and overheard confessions, it doesn't take a degree to see that whatever has happened in their lives, the level of devotion these two have for one another is unparalleled. Hell, he has _seen_ it. He bore witness to it in the way Sam dragged himself out of the wreckage to reach his brother and how Dean's first concern and instinct wasn't for his own well-being or safety but rather those of others, including his. Those actions tell him more than words uttered from these boys ever could.

The feminine voice is back to stream along the chord of the drumbeat in his head.

"We have a deal then? I check you out while the others look after Dean."

"But…"

"Not really open to negotiation Sam. And, you'll be able to see everything that's going on from the back of the ambulance. Okay? You don't want to collapse and be down for the count when he wakes up right?"

Absolutely not. His brain tries to figure out what he should do but he is pretty sure that part of his anatomy has gone on strike and isn't really up to anything remotely similar to forming an actual, coherent thought at the moment. He wants nothing more than to hover and be there if Dean so much as twitches but Greg is right. All these nice, innocent people would be on the receiving end of the legendary fury that his brother is famous for unleashing if he sees him banged up and on the verge of passing out. That wouldn't be good, for anyone.

He nods lightly and reaches out a hand to the trucker.

"Fine but… if he moves one inch… I need to be there… when he wakes up... you… you don't want to… deal with Dean if… if he doesn't know where… his baby brother is…"

Greg can't help the smile that slides across his face. He should have guessed. Dean, he plays the part of the stoic and protective big brother to a tee. And Sam, well he has obviously placed his older sibling, his hero, on what seems to be a much deserved and earned pedestal.

* * *

><p>He moves away slowly from the sign, the spark of life, the hope and redemption its touch promised still dancing along the length of his veins. He breathes in deeply and lets the feeling of it tingle through him as he looks to his hands, half-expecting the tinge of all those colours to speckle his skin. He feels a flash of disappointment when all he sees is the same weathered fingers; broken and scarred and devoid of light.<p>

Even surrounded by beauty unmatched by anything else his life has thrown his way, he can still feel them as they hover all around and look to needle their way back in. His darkest thoughts, they cling and whisper to him, they linger along the border of his mind. They clutch and claw and dig in to regain their hold, to remind him that euphoria such as this is something that is earned, that it's not to be doled out to those who destroy everything in their path, to those whose touch only brings sorrow and pain. They talk to him, they flash images in his mind and double their efforts to deny him what his heart and soul ache for, the peace and longing of forgiveness.

He steps slowly passed the sign, the glare of its colours and promise within making his heart yearn for more. He looks to the entrance of the town in awe. Polished, immaculate gates seem to open up to him as he stands like a statue, frozen and unmoving, the only indication of life the somewhat erratic rise and fall of his chest.

The place is surrounded in light and life, in vitality and purity. He longs to step through the threshold but he doesn't dare move, afraid that if he twitches one muscle forward the facade will crumble and fade and he will once again be standing in the vast barrenness of his true destiny and worth.

The sun gleams off of the gate, its reflection enveloping him in a wave of warmth, seeking to chase the sullen thoughts into the shadows. Perfectly manicured hedges and bushes line the walkway and the glimmer of Christmas lights twinkle through the most vibrant shade of evergreen.

Christmas. A time of peace and love, of joy and thankfulness. A time to spend and treasure with family and friends, with all those who you hold dear. He chuckles at the irony of it, as the lights that glint through the foliage suddenly seem to mock him in a twinkling reminder of all that he has lost, and of how alone and alienated he has become even on what is supposed to be the most joyous day of the year.

He scoffs at the false promises the word and the day have meant in his own life. Others can embrace the spirit of the season, the holiness of what it stands for, but not him. Never him. He has not seen one iota, not one smidgen of anything to make him believe this day is any different than all the rest. It's just another day, just another chance to cover himself in blood and tears, in death and violence.

His eyes scan the expanse of the town until they settle on a towering Christmas tree illuminated and sparkling in the distance. His eyes are drawn towards it. There is something welcoming about it and this town in the middle of nowhere, something that constantly clashes with the darkness he is blanketed in, as it fights to give him an undeserved moment of peace in a usually turbulent and relentless existence.

Undeserved. The word bounces around in his head.

He shouldn't be here, he should not feel worthy of this and he doesn't, not if he were to be honest with himself. That dark thought pierces directly into him, cuts through him like he is made of paper and leaves him to stand wavering and unsure of his next move.

* * *

><p>He can't, he tries but it's hard to keep track of all the commotion as he struggles to stay upright and awake, his head bandaged, his ribs bound and his arm in a makeshift sling. He feels a numbness start to encase him as the drugs begin to travel through his veins. He had refused them at first, had begged and pleaded with her that he needed to stay alert in case Dean needed him. His constant litany of groans and gasps and hisses forced him to concede, but only after Susan promised it would only dull the throb that seemed to have taken root over his entire frame.<p>

His senses may be a bit sluggish and slower than usual, but as he looks on, one thing, one constant remains crystal clear. The looks that flash across their faces and the urgency infused in their movements screams out loudly through his hazy mind. Dean, his brother, the only family he has left is fighting for his life. He feels the sting of fresh tears well up and lets them tumble freely down his face, the ability to hide them long since passed. He flinches at the brush of contact against his leg. He turns and finds the face of Greg, his own eyes moistened with tears.

"Sam... I... he's still alive son but..." Sam looks into the face of this man, this stranger who has done so much for them and his heart breaks for the toll that this ordeal seems to have infused into this gentle man. He instinctively grabs the trucker's hand in his own and squeezes with as much strength as he can muster.

"Greg... don't... I don't blame you, and neither will Dean. He'll be okay. He's Dean, right? Been through lot tougher... things than this. I have to... I have to believe he's gonna be fine... He... he wouldn't leave me alone. Not after everything."

Greg looks to him with an expression he can't quite read before he nods his in agreement.

"Okay Sam. Hell, I don't know what it is about you two but I can't help but believe you. He's a fighter right?"

A flurry of emotions sideswipes him, the thought of exactly how much his brother has had to fight, at the terrible price he has had to pay over and over again and the toll it has taken makes it impossible for him to speak. He can't do anything else but nod. Yeah, Dean is definitely a fighter.

"Right, so he will fight until he comes back to you."

* * *

><p>They watch. Young. Old. Men. Women. Children. Each from their own vantage point they take in the sight of him. They had been called back into the middle of the square and circle around the magnificence of the tree that stands tall and protective. Its branches fan out above them as if to shield them from the hurt, anguish and self-loathing they can all feel pour out across their picturesque scene from the man who seems to carry enough for the whole world.<p>

It is time.

She watches an elderly, sophisticated gentleman, dressed in an overcoat and fedora reminiscent of the days when life was simpler, when this was normal attire for every day, stand and step forward to eye the figure across the square, the one who seems so eager to embrace them yet still hesitates and stands awkwardly at the threshold. The man clasps his hands together and with a nod and smile to the crowd begins to stroll towards him, to welcome their guest with loving arms.

They all watch, they all wait and they all brim with nervous energy as he is now within their midst.

* * *

><p>His eyes veer to the left, a golden hue catching his attention through his periphery and he feels inexplicably pulled towards it. Its glow burns brighter as he watches and although it is subdued in its intensity, it makes the vibrancy of the previous colours seem somehow dull and faded. The light, <em>this<em> light, dwarfs all others.

* * *

><p>She hears a flutter of gasps as she emits her own, as all the residents in the town bear witness to another powerful sign. It makes her heart swell and then plummet from its perch in her chest to crash towards her feet, as they fidgit nervously within their shiny, black shoes.<p>

She watches the gentleman walk brisker now, on the verge of breaking into a run. The appearance of that light, although not burning at its brightest yet, is a glorious yet ominous sight to behold. All that watch from the centre of the town know what the golden illumination means, have each experienced the pull and rush of it, the magnificence of its power and its promise of love, peace and forgiveness.

If he walks towards the light, if he crosses through it he will then truly know and believe without a doubt the value of his life. But, as the tears start to roll along her cheeks, she knows it also means he will be unable to return to it.

* * *

><p>They stop en route to the ambulance and Sam feels his heart clench. They rush around his brother, no longer calm but headed towards full blown panic to save the man they just managed to extract from the remnants of his once beautiful, mint condition vehicle. He looks to Greg with eyes full of anguish and desperation before he jumps up to exit the ambulance, his traitorous legs and head trying to steal from him his overwhelming need to get to where is brother lays, unresponsive and surrounded by strangers.<p>

There is a sudden, powerful grip around his frame in that moment, seconds before he figures the force of gravity was about to pull him mercilessly down to the earth. He looks at his shoulder, a white knuckled hand clenched around it and his head turns to look at Greg, whose eyes fill with steely determination. The trucker nods grimly at him and the pair meanders and weaves their way through the equipment and pieces of wreckage that still litter the landscape until they are as close as they can get.

He stares on in horror as he sees for the first time his brother's body freed from its metal cage. His shirt has been cut, the fabric darkened by its saturation in blood. A medic presses gauze into a wound on his chest, the whiteness of the bandages blur into pink and then red at an alarming rate of speed. He swallows hard as they pump air into his body, the bag fitted over his mouth and the rhythm of their compressions on it making him waver.

His legs are like rubber, his head is spinning and his body releases a torrent of agony both physical and mental, but he does not falter and he does not cave. His brother needs him and the hell if he will let his own desire to run away screaming into the night rob his brother of the comfort he knows only he can provide. With the vice grip of Greg's hand still around him, its energy radiating to strengthen him as he stands, he breathes in and shouts his brother's name into the night.

* * *

><p>He blinks as the distinct yet distant sound of his brother's voice, its tone tightened and crackling with distress and fear, echoes through him. He turns to look behind him and scans the area to seek him out. His eyebrows knot in confusion as no sign of his brother presents itself to his roving eyes.<p>

_"DEEEEAN! FIGHT!"_

He flinches at the volume which filters through his ears and shivers at the anger, loss of control and desperation those words carry. He begs silently, asks his brother to leave him to bask in the light. He is so tired of fighting, he... he wants to stop.

"DEEEEEAN!"

He wavers then, the pain that radiates in his brother's voice tears a strip from his heart and the sting of guilt slams into him.

No. Please. His fight is through, he has done enough.

He turns back to gaze into the golden brilliance once more, eager for it to replace the uncertainty and guilt he feels about letting his brother go, but the vision that meets his eyes makes him whimper. He looks on as the light starts to recede, until it is eventually snuffed out like the flickering wick of a burning candle. He stands and gawks at the emptiness it has left in its stead, as that same emptiness engulfs him where he stands.

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><p><strong>TBC... I'd love to hear what you think if you feel so inclined. Thanks as always for stopping by. :)<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Welcome back! Sorry for the delay on this chapter, my daughter has been sick for the past week and in those few moments of peace when I did have a chance to write, all the thoughts and images I wanted to put out to you got all jumbled and tangled up in a heap of disjointed paragraphs that seemed to have no flow to them.**

**I apologize for the shortness of this chapter but I know if I kept looking and rehashing it I would never post anything and perhaps just go a little nutty in the process! **

**Sorry for rambling on. Thank you for all your support and your wonderful comments, I truly am overwhelmed by your kindness!**

* * *

><p>He stretches out a shaking hand and as it passes through nothing but the emptiness of space, his whimper turns into a choked sob. He stutters out a breathy 'No, please. Don't…' before he lets his hand drop to his side to leave it hang limp and defeated, suddenly devoid of all the muscle and strength that had blossomed in his entire body mere moments before, when he basked in the glow of that brilliant hue.<p>

_"Dean! Please man, stay with me!"_

Sam. There is his damn voice again, filled with its constant companions of sorrow and pain, the inflection of worry so interwoven in his speech that it has become a permanent fixture. _That_ is how he always sounds now. _That_ is what his big brother has done for him, turned him from an optimistic lover of the rose-coloured glasses club to a man almost as broken as he is. He can just add his brother's name to his lengthy 'all the people he's screwed up' belt.

He closes his eyes and envisions Sammy. He despises the irony of it, the fact that the one person he swore to protect and save is the one who suffers most from the acid that fans out to burn the man who he holds closest to his nearly frozen heart. He tries to drum up images of happier times, before death and violence reared its ugly head and pierced his brother's soul with such force that in the end Sam still became a product of everything that he had fought his whole life to keep him from. How he wishes he could hold him right now, tell him how sorry he is for oh so many things that he has done and said in the midst of grief and inner demons. He does a slow three sixty degree turn to scope out any evidence of his brother but he isn't surprised when only emptiness mocks him again.

"Sam? Are… are you here? Are… please, are you okay?"

He feels the tears pool in his eyes, the pain of all his brother has lost, from his dream of having a normal life to bearing witness to the death of his love being seared and burned into his memory forever; from the bitterness that blistered out from endless fights with their dad just to have any hope of patching their relationship pulled out from under him. What a waste. If he wouldn't have taken Sam away maybe he could be living a beautiful life with Jess. And their father is dead because of him. The image of devastation etched into Sam's face from both of those events crashes into him like a bolt of lightning, to scorch yet another scar across his skin.

"S'm… m'sorry Sam."

* * *

><p>"Okay, we got him back. We need to move…."<p>

That one sentence seems to part the ocean his head has been drowning in with the promise of a speck of land on the horizon. When his focus returns he can't help but let a soft smile grace his lips. Dean is no longer in need of having oxygen pumped into his lungs by that damn bag but instead has just a plain old, run of the mill mask draped over his face. The fog that coats the inside of that plastic is just about the greatest thing he has ever seen. Dean is breathing on his own which means he is still fighting, which means he hasn't given up yet.

* * *

><p>His stare remains unflinching on that spot just ahead, even as his vision starts to blur, clouded by still unshed tears. Its hollowness seems to taunt and heckle him, the discovery that this is how he is meant to be, alone and unworthy even on the edge of something so pure jabs relentlessly into his flesh like one of his coveted blades that slice and dice without thought or guilt. It carves into him to teach his already collapsing soul yet another brutal lesson.<p>

That even the most unimaginable power, the kind that transforms and lights everything in its path with beauty and hope stands a snowball's chance in Hell when faced with the truth of the atrocity his life represents. Even _that_ force is made to shrink back into sweet nothingness to escape his disease. Just one more slam of proof that once you have been infected by Dean Winchester, even the power of the sun or God himself cannot purge you of his contamination.

His eyes glimmer with tears, the reality and enormity of what he is not worthy to receive, of what has just been stripped away from him gathers like the force of a hurricane, tightening and rolling through his now shaking body.

* * *

><p>She releases the breath she wasn't even aware she had been holding as she rejoices when the golden light blinks out of existence. She feels more tears map their way down her face but it is with a mixture of both joy lined by sadness that perforates the pores of her skin. She sees his shoulders sag and his body quiver, like he has been plucked right from the surface of the sun to be immersed into a sea of ice and bathed in its never ending chill.<p>

She turns to the others and sees her expression mirrored in their own. Fear. Anxiety. Love. She silently begs the man to quicken his pace and reach him before he falters and splinters like a sheet of ice that begins to crack, until it is violently ripped apart by the onslaught of the latest storm.

* * *

><p>He must be all kinds of darkness and vileness woven into the clever disguise of a regular man. It's so damn obvious. Even the might of goodness and hope personified, the rush of it that pulsated from that brilliant beam was no match when it looked upon the abyss that he is drenched in, that has infiltrated his every thought, every action and has consumed anything righteous he may have thought still lay hidden in the recesses of his soul.<p>

The thing was smart though, he'll give it that. At least once it scoped him out, once it felt the aura of him and realized who and what the man who stood before it embodied, it had the where for all to recoil out of instinct and preservation. It turned and high-tailed it before its majestic light was irreversibly shaded within the shadow of an unending darkness, the one that he lives and breathes in, and has been coated with pretty much every single day of his worthless existence. _It's_ the lucky one.

Sam should do the same. Hit the highway and never look back.

Too bad Sammy can't see past the 'brother thing' and envision him in the same way. At least _it_ didn't stick around to suffer the fate of every other glimmer of goodness that has dared to try and shine some light upon his all-consuming and perpetual night. Those unlucky bastards are the ones whose spark for love and life and the ability to look for the silver lining amongst chaos and destruction was instantly burnt away and left to rot in a smoldering ruin. All it takes is one fleeting encounter with him to be tarnished beyond repair. And Sammy has been surrounded in his impurity his whole damn life. It's only a matter of time until his spark of life is also extinguished, smothered by his own brother.

_"I need you. Don't leave me."_

Sam. It's like he's right there whispering into his ear.

His posture changes as he stands rigid and defiant, his jaw clenches and his body trembles but not from loss but from anger, baffled at the unfairness at how his brother is made to suffer simply by having the misfortune of having been born and raised under his protective yet suffocating wing.

"Sammy, I'm… I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve it. You…I don't deserve... you."

He feels his heart seem to harden within his chest, the pump of his blood seems to solidify and trickle slowly with the consistency of molasses, clogging his arteries in the sludge as it travels.

He chuckles and the noise sounds strange in his throat. It isn't airy or light, it's damaged and tortured and full of craze.

As if. As if that beacon was meant for him. The love and warmth that skirted from its center to coat over him was, as usual, too damn good to be true.

Whatever it was, whatever promise it held is long gone, absorbed and crushed by the black hole whose center resides in the hollowness of his chest. Sucked in by the black, empty void that reaches and ebbs and spurts out of him with such vigor that it will encompass any and all that try to veer it from his destined path.

He feels his body start to slow, weakened and immersed by images of his brother, of Sam and all that this life has taken from him.

_"Fight Dean. Find your way back to me."_

"SAM! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? Sam? Sam?"

* * *

><p>She flinches at the way the harshness and anguish intertwines as he screams out his brother's name. There is such a love there, a bond that manages to defy the test of their lives, their losses and their pain. Even as she sees the older man about to reach the gate she can't remain motionless and stand on the sidelines any longer. She charges through the crowd of resident onlookers to scurry along the path and do whatever she can to shield this gentle soul from himself.<p>

* * *

><p>He reaches the entranceway and clears his throat to announce his arrival. When no indication is made that he has been heard, he slowly makes his way to where the man stands, suddenly teetering on unsteady legs and breathlessly panting out his brother's name.<p>

"Sam? I'm sorry... please forgive me... it's all... it's all my fault."

His hand reaches out gently to give him something else to focus on in an attempt to halt the mutterings and unwarranted pleads for forgiveness. The young man turns to face him then and he breathes deep at the emotions that stir within his wavering eyes as they track across his face in confusion.

"Sam?"

"No son, but if you come with me I can show you the path to your brother once again."

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><p><strong>TBC...<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**_Yes_****, it has been a long time coming. _Yes_, I did have a major case of writer's block on this. _Yes_, I have been trying to churn out another chapter for weeks! _No_, I am not really satisfied with this chapter but am hoping it will get the creative juices flowing again. So, this is a shorter one and that is most likely how the following chapters will be. To any of you who have returned after my impromptu and unscheduled hiatus – THANK YOU! **

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><p>Forget the dog. At this moment man's best friend, or at least Sam's, is that little thing called Adrenaline. And it is pumping through his veins with such force that he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He figures he can thank its existence for the miracle of him remaining upright on shaky, but at the moment, still cooperating legs.<p>

He can almost feel the gust of air reach him as all those people who stand around the scene breathe out in unison, as they release the air that they all held tight inside until the moment when Dean took in a sliver of oxygen on his own accord.

* * *

><p>He has never been in this particular place before. It's true, he has seen his share of accidents, one of the unfortunate side effects of the trucker's life, but he has never been up close and personal in the thick of the chaos before. He's never been in the eye of the tornado. He has never been pulled into its fury, more than content to remain on the outskirts and not within the storm itself. Yet, there is an eerie calm in this place now. He's astounded how amongst all the debris and the carnage, one small event has seemed to taken them from the fiery belly of the beast into the flickering light of hope.<p>

He glances at Sam's profile and marvels at the small, thin smile that has managed to break through the cracks of his otherwise serious features; to spill out as he stares lovingly at his brother. He sees tears as they glisten and hears a whispered breath of sound. Two words play out from his chapped lips. 'Fight Dean.'

* * *

><p>He moves a little closer, the fact that the flurry of activity seems to have lessened to more of the movements of a well-oiled machine, as the rescue crew works quickly to gather up equipment to finally get this show on the road, lifts his heart a degree; knowing soon his brother will get to where he needs to be.<p>

He sees an opening and steps forwards until he can finally look upon his brother's face up close.

He doesn't look at anything else. He doesn't look anywhere else. He can't.

He can't take in the tatters Dean's shirt has become, ripped and shredded like he just tangled with a werewolf.

He can't look at the colour of red that seems to have permeated every single inch of his brother's chest.

He can't look at the intravenous attached to his callous, unflinching and limp hand. No. He can't.

Because that would unravel the one flimsy thread of strength and hope he still has; lose that and he will tumble to the ground and be swept away in a torrent of grief.

So no, he won't look past his brother's face.

He places his hand on Dean's brow and leans in close, his words filtering out in a breathy whisper, the emotions entrenched within almost breaking his fragile hold of the sound.

"Dean. It's me. It's… it's Sam. I'm right here bro, not going anywhere. But you need to fight. Fight your way back to me."

He sighs thoughtfully as he continues to take in the contours of each part of his brother's face.

This is how his brother looks when he is afforded a moment or two of peace. In the night, when his battered and bruised body and mind finally succumbs to the exhaustion that encompasses his life; when the walls of his multitude of defenses start to give way under the pressure of his need for sleep, _this_ is how his brother looks.

At least until he is awoken by a nightmare or he hears a sound that pulls him from where he needs to be and pushes him right back into full-fledged hunter mode.

But, on those rare occasions when his older brother is the first to fall into slumber, Sam can't help but stare. Never for long and never so close to make it uncomfortable if his brother jolts awake, but just long enough and close enough to see Dean as he should be, as he deserves to be. Young. Peaceful. Content. It is only in those first few, fleeting moments that his brother seems to allow himself the simple luxury and tranquility that everyone else on the damn planet takes for granted.

He sees movement on the other side of the gurney. Susan. He knows she is staring at him, silently telling him it's time to go. But, he can't. Not yet. He just needs one more minute.

He feels a tear slowly track his face. He wipes absently at it and closes his eyes for just a moment, willing himself to be strong, to just hold back the dam for a little while longer.

Greg moves closer to the young man but still keeps enough distance between him and the scene to allow Sam as much privacy and time with his brother as this crazy situation will allow. The boy looks unsteady at best and he wants to be there in case he needs help.

Susan clears her throat and looks over to them then, her eyes wide and all business but the smile on her face is genuine and full of relief.

"Sam? He's as stable as we can make him here." She shifts her gaze to one of the other medics. "Let's roll."

Let's roll. That expression echoes in Sam's mind and he feels his new best friend Adrenaline leave him like a boulder that's been cast into the sea. Dean. How many times has he heard that term muttered from his brother? As they leave another forsaken town, carnage and traumatized innocence in their wake. As they head out to face yet another evil sack of shit. As they leave everything they have known in the dust to travel on the road in a never ending job that leads to nowhere but heartache and loneliness.

Their lives are ugly and brutal. Their lives are twisted and shredded, like the remnants of a kite whose brilliant colours have been stripped away by the ferociousness of a violent and unbeatable storm, tossed around and whipped by gale force winds as it follows its inevitable course to meet the cold, unfeeling ground.

The fact that it wasn't a creature from the depths of nightmares that has brought him to this place makes him chuckle and shake his head in disbelief. What a slap in the face. Really? A damn car accident? That is what almost did his brother in? It's… it's just so ironic. Dean has battled angels, demons, monsters and the things of nightmares and the universe decides to throw another wrench into their lives and have him lying on death's door, again, because of a pile of damn snow? No, that… it's just too… he can't…

Dean has been mauled and poisoned and stabbed and shot and burned, just to come back and be taken out by….

"Sam?"

He blinks slowly, like his eyeballs have suddenly been encased in syrup, his lashes stuck to his closed lids. It seems to take forever before he can pry them back open and turn his head to look at the owner of the voice, at Greg. The trucker moves forward and places a soft touch on his hand and only then does he realize he's clenching the side of the gurney with crushing force. He lets go and his body sways life a leaf in the breeze, as it decides whether this moment is the one when it will take the plunge and say hello to the earth below.

Greg's grip tightens on him them and he tries his best to steady his movements. He lets out a small gasp when pain shoots up his arm; when he is slammed with a none too gentle reminder that he does, in fact, still have a broken arm.

The thing about adrenaline? Its effects are immediate and undeniable but the crash you feel when it comes to a halt is overpowering and drains you until you feel like you haven't slept in a damn week.

"Hmmm?"

"Time to go now son, time to get you and your brother to the hospital."

* * *

><p><strong>TBC... Thanks for stopping by!<strong>


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